


Eclipse of the Sun

by Madrigal_in_training



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Jon Snow, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Happy Life, House Martell, House Stark, Jon Snow in Dorne, Jon Snow is Raised a Martell, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Oberyn Raises Jon Snow, R plus L equals J, Warg Jon Snow, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-03-17 13:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13659519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madrigal_in_training/pseuds/Madrigal_in_training
Summary: When Oberyn Martell adds two and two and gets five, Lyarra Snow finds herself forcefully relocated to Dorne as the newly discovered House Martell bastard. A child still longing for home, Lyarra unexpectedly blossoms under harsh sands, high expectations and the love of a family proud to claim her as their shadowed sun. fem!Jon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Author376](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/gifts).



 

It all began with a letter.

 

A letter written by a princess.

 

A princess left for dead in the Red Keep.

 

The Red Keep where the stags and lions now roamed but had once been held by the proud dragons. Where the last true dragon of House Targaryen had been wed to a Dornish Princess, kind and clever and fair, with warm-toned amber in her eyes and hair as black as a raven’s wing. The princess was named Elia and while her limbs may have been frail and her womb weak, her spirit shone as fiercely bright as the sun on her banner. Nine years past had she brokered an agreement with a dragon over the silent walls of the Keep. The Princess Elia loved children, the dark-haired daughter and fair-haired son from her own womb, as well as the daughter borne by a she-wolf of the North. She was a devoted mother and in the way of mothers, sought to protect her children. A daughter she lost, a son she lost and one, not of her own blood or flesh but loved nonetheless, she saved by a letter written when the hourglass hadn’t yet been broken.

 

It all began with a letter written by a princess left for dead in the Red Keep.

 

A letter that never met a raven’s claw or its recipient's hand but was carefully guarded by loyal servants awaiting a chance to come across a scorpion or a viper. A letter hidden under the dusty sheets of an elderly washer woman’s linen closet, brought out with other effects when a prince was summoned to the capitol. A letter gifted discreetly, shortly before the Stag King issued demand the Viper’s presence before the Small Council.

 

A letter that Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell held in his hand now.

 

“Thank you.” He spoke with quiet sincerity, “It took great courage to hold these for years underneath the Lannister’s eye.”

 

The woman’s rheumy eyes looked at him tearfully. “It was nothing, m’lord. If there’s anything I can do to lessen the pain for you and yours, then simply ask it. The princesses’ and little prince’s deaths were a tragedy. She didn’t deserve any of that. She was a _good_ person, m’lord, a good one.”

 

Oberyn merely nodded, withdrawing a small pouch and offering it to the servant. He placed it away when she refused him and then brought out a beautifully embroidered handkerchief instead. The elderly woman sniffled into it a few times, offering him a teary smile before turning and walking away.

 

 _‘More of Elia’s things.’_ Oberyn thought, with that familiar clench of his heart. The one that gouged holes inside of him, constricting his throat and burning his chest with nothing but pure, vile _hate_ . The Viper’s eyes stung but he had cried out his tears long ago. None would come to him anymore. There would be nothing more associated with Elia’s death than sheer hatred and a vicious, bloody beast in his heart that demanded to come out and tear her killers into pieces. ‘ _Better in my hands than the Usurper’s domain.’_

 

Doran had recovered little things of Elia’s from the Red Keep over the years, often smuggled out by either loyal servants seeking closure or crafty ones desiring profit. Unlike Oberyn, his brother liked to keep them in a chest of drawers by his desk, to take them out and turn them around his fingers, to imagine a world where Elia had not had her life, spirit and babes stolen by the lions. The Viper wanted to throw this bag away, this innocuous reminder of an Elia that was whole, but he kept it close at hand instead. His Prince would want them and Oberyn was a glutton for punishment anyway.

 

_‘The Usurper demanded my presence. Shall I make him wait or not?’_

 

To stay would mean looking through the bag to hurt himself with reminders of his dear sister.

 

To go would mean dealing with the fat, callous bastard that called his sister’s children _dragonspawn._

 

Eventually, the knowledge that the latter would irritate the Usurper more, had Oberyn sit down. He was provided a room befitting his status as the brother of the Prince of Dorne. It had an attached solar with a fittingly large teak desk that he emptied the bag onto. Spilled out were a handful of shiny pebbles, the kind that Rhaenys loved to collect from the streets, a copper toy of a viper, a nearly-done seven-pointed star prayer wheel and finally, a folded parchment embossed with his sister’s seal.

 

 _‘What’s this?’_ Oberyn plucked the parchment out of the pile and, with a brief apology to his sister’s spirit, unbroke the wax. He promptly took his apology away when he saw that it was addressed to Doran and himself.

 

_‘My dearest brothers,_

 

_I know not when it’ll be safe for this letter to be sent but the importance is such that I place quill to parchment now, in the hopes that it will soon reach the sands of our home. Know first that I take pains to remain purposefully enigmatic about the subject of this letter, lest it fall to hands untoward. As the war rages outside of these walls, I pray nightly that you both shall survive this madness that the dragons, wolves and stags have brought upon us all. I pray also that the children of our House shall live, from the three that Doran brought into this world, to the unknown quantity of the progeny of your own loins, Oberyn, to mine own. Another child, a shadowed sun, will need more help to survive than most…’_

 

Oberyn faithfully read through this letter, dated as one of the last Elia had ever written, and inferred the words she had so obliquely written in her correspondence. The reference to the Hammer of the Waters, a childhood myth in Dorne of a mystical weapon wielded by the Children of the Forest to stop the Andal Invasion, was particularly pertinent. In that story, hundreds of greenseers gathered at the Northern fortress of Moat Callain and sacrificed a thousand captive humans to the weirwoods, to instigate their dark magic. Breaking the narrow land bridge connecting Westeros and Essos into the Stepstones and the Broken Arm failed to keep the Andals away but proved the Children’s strength and led the First Men into a Pact with them thereafter in the Isle of Faces. An ancestor of Bran the Builder was claimed to have led the pact in the God’s Eye himself. That had been the favorite childhood story of Cousin Aliandra, despite the bloodiness of it all. Considering the Stark mythos, the bastard wolf found in Dorne, and the repeated allusions to an eclipse, symbolizing the concealment of a sun…

 

 _‘This can only mean one thing,’_ Oberyn concluded. _‘I’m going to have to kill Eddard fucking Stark._ ’

 

It wasn’t the siring of a bastard or the ‘dishonoring’ of a woman that he was furious by. Cousin Ali was a bastard herself from Uncle Lewyn's loins sired upon a minor daughter of House Fowler. She’d been witty and bright, fiercely independent and able to bed any one she right well pleased. She’d also been a handmaiden for Elia and close to her cousin, despite her bastardry, until she rode out with Uncle Lewyn to the battlefield. Not a warrior herself, Aliandra had a gift for languages and cryptography and inscribed and decoded the secret messages between her father and Doran. Oberyn remembered his brother being quite exasperated when her duties were curtailed after a tryst in the nearby rivertown. They’d never discovered the name of the father- though Ali should have had better taste than Ned Stark, really- but she’d relocated to a small holdfast of her mother’s family to give birth. The keep bordered the edge of Dorne and was one of those to be burned down by the rebel’s forces. Cousin Ari and her child had died in that fire.

 

Or at least Cousin Ari had died because apparently her child was being raised in a frozen tundra by an inconsiderate ass that never bothered to tell House Martell they’d another cousin in Westeros. To some extent, Oberyn could infer the reasoning behind the Quiet Wolf’s actions. To outsiders unaware of the close bonds of kinship in House Martell, it would be unwise to mention to the grieving family that Lyanna Stark’s niece was born with Martell blood. It burned him to think so. Neither Doran nor himself would hold the sins of a parent against their child. They did not hurt little girls in Dorne, and moreover, they _would_ not hurt their kin. The Stark’s bastard was born in Dornish sands and there she should have grown, finding better treatment by her mother’s family than anywhere else north of the Red Mountains. And Gods, Stark had married a Tully woman, hadn’t he? What if she was like her sister? Oberyn despaired to his baby cousin’s confidence and self-worth, raised in the home of a woman related to that harpy, Lady Lysa Arryn.

 

 _‘One of Elia’s final wishes was to see this child safe and well by her blood,’_ He thought glowingly of his deceased sister. Oberyn needn’t the reminder, of course, but it was bittersweet to remember that Elia had loved children so. ‘ _No better time to rescue a maiden from Ned Stark’s bumbling attempts at parenting than now, I suppose. The poor girl has suffered eight years with him already._ ’

 

Rolling up the scroll, the Viper safely placed it in his pockets and began to whistle. While not his only, or even most important, reason, it did warm the cockles of his heart to know that this would irritate the Usurper greatly. He wouldn’t desire handing a wolf over to the Martells any more than Ned Stark would. However, as the daughter of a royal House, the Martells had precedence over any baseborn children brought from the union of Ali and, again this boggled his mind, Ned Stark. The King might refuse to hand the child over out of spite entirely but Oberyn was willing to be as sharp a needle in his seat as any other. He had done far worse in the pursuit of his family’s happiness after all.

 

 _‘Still, even with Elia’s letter, it’s hard to believe that the most boring man alive managed to seduce not one but_ two _Dornish beauties…’_

 

x

 

Lord Eddard Stark had been having a pleasant morning. He’d woken to few responsibilities for the day in the arms of a wife that he deeply loved. He’d broken his fast on a favorite meal of honey-laden porridge and ventured a jape that won smiles from all his children. He’d even the time to cross swords briefly with Ser Rodrik, a pastime that he enjoyed but could partake of too rarely for his own happiness. Then he’d arrived to his solar, began reviewing his correspondence for the morning and been accused of an affair with a woman he’d never heard of before.

 

_‘Who in the Seven Hells is Aliandra Sand?’_

 

And why would he have sired a child on her? The accusation bewildered him, not because he had been unaware of such claims on men of a certain power and influence, but because _Ned_ had been accused. He’d seen such accusations leveled on Robert more times than he’d care to remember, even once as a lad of four-and-ten in the Eyrie but himself? The Quiet Wolf of House Stark was known far and wide as an honorable, dutiful man (with admittedly no great talent for speaking to the fairer sex). It had taken him a full three years to charm his own wife, a woman sworn to him under the altar of her own Gods, and even then, he’d retained a reputation for a certain reserve.

 

There had once been a Dornish woman that he’d carried a torch for but Ashara…

 

_‘How did they convince Jon to lend support to their claim?’_

 

The letter’s surprise was swiftly shifting into absurdity as he read further on. His foster father’s words were everything apologetic, even as he counseled Ned to do what was best for the realm and for Robert’s reign. The Hand of the King had written forthright that, while it pained him to do this, the only option moving forward was for Ned to relinquish his primary guardianship over Lyarra and return her to her mother’s House. It was when that name was finally revealed, in Jon’s familiarly lopsided script, that Ned’s blood ran cold.

 

House Martell.

 

Princess Elia Martell’s family was demanding the guardianship of his only niece, Rhaegar’s last living daughter. The last trueborn Targaryen in Westeros.

 

 _‘Do they know the truth?’_ Distress squeezed his breast as the alarmed lord shifted through the possibilities unfolding before his eyes. He couldn’t find any reason for the Martells to demand Lyarra’s presence, if not for her bloodline and their revenge against Lyanna’s child. The Dornish could have told Robert the truth, damning his entire family to the sword but instead they demanded a dragon child. To topple his brother from the throne? To suffer Lyarra a fate worse than her half-siblings by lion claws?

 

Another man may have fallen quickly to the strength of his trepidation but Ned was a Stark, born and bred. The blood in his veins turned to ice as he picked up the atypical parchment to land on his desk. Embossed on a light gold vellum, with a vibrant orange sunburst holding it closed, the Stark cut through the wax and opened the letter. It was from Prince Doran, a decisive slant that exposed the scent of orange blossoms and persimmons into the air. When he finished reading it, Ned didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

 

The Martells thought Lyarra was _their_ bastard.

 

Not Rhaegar’s, not Lyanna’s, but the baseborn child of Ned Stark and again, a woman he knew nothing of, regardless of the passionate affair between them that apparently led to a child. Prince Doran had written circumspectly of a letter written by his own sister’s hand affirming the match. If nothing else could persuade Ned to lend his words credence, this did. He, too, had lost a beloved sister to the Silver Prince’s folly and the Mad King’s rage. Never would Ned have stained Lyanna’s memory by attributing a false wish to her deathbed and neither, did he think, would Doran Martell.

 

Princess Elia Martell had been well-loved. Just as Lyanna Stark was well-loved by a realm unable to save their own wolf maiden from war.

 

This, though, had left Ned with another problem. Prince Doran was insistent that his cousin’s child be brought to Sunspear as her mother was before her. They had, he had written most eloquently, little to remind themselves of their beloved Cousin Ari after her tragic death and would be ‘most pleased’ to raise Lyarra Sand in the home of her ancestors. She would grow up knowing of her culture and raised with her cousins, who were very eager to know of her. Dorne was more welcoming to bastards than the other realms and Lyarra would find more freedom and happiness in the land of her birth than she would elsewhere. The Martells were even willing to dower her as Aliandra Sand had apparently died before the funds set aside by the previous Ruling Princess and her father, Prince Lewyn, were used.

 

None of this was untrue, of course, except for the minor problem of it all being built on a lie.

 

 _‘One,’_ Ned thought, with an almost hysterical chuckle, ‘ _That I cannot possibly dispel.’_

 

The Lord of House Stark had been careful throughout the years to obfuscate the details of Lyarra’s birth. He had neither confirmed nor denied his affair with Ashara, raising a good deal of speculation on the relationship Ned had with that lady, without inciting anyone to look further into the story. If they did, the Quiet Wolf knew, it would quickly fall apart as the basic maths of Lyarra’s conception made it exceedingly difficult for him to have sired her.

 

Difficult but not impossible. If Aliandra Sand had followed her father to the Riverlands. If they’d had a tryst before the Battle of the Bells. If she’d receded to Dorne to wait out her confinement. If Lyarra had been born early and sickly- which she had been- if Ned had taken his child and fled after finding Lyanna’s bones, if he’d kept it secret all these years to protect his daughter from prejudice against the Martells. If, if, if… If he was willing to castigate a woman for an act that she’d never partaken in and give a family false hope for another daughter.

 

 _‘Not_ entirely _false.’_ A scowl broke apart his stoic face as he recalled Rhaegar’s Dornish blood, still strong after years of intermarrying that even Lyarra had a few Salty Dornish traits. ‘ _Princess Elia must have known. If she wrote to her brothers of a child with Martell blood, born to a Stark, than she meant to speak of Lyanna’s child._ ’

 

It astounded him to think of the generosity of spirit necessary for such a letter. Lyanna had been fiercely loyal, yes, but mostly to her loved ones or those she perceived as facing an injustice of some kind. She had been a champion of the weak and oppressed and Ned admired that about his sister but he could admit the she-wolf hadn’t the same gentle soul as Princess Elia. Not for the first time, Ned felt the deepest remorse that such a warm-hearted woman had her life snuffed out in the violent manner she did.

 

_‘Now how can I deny one of her final wishes to her grieving brothers?’_

 

Despite Ned’s fierce desire to deny this, citing amongst other things, that Lyarra deserved to grow up with her father and half-siblings, _also_ in the home of her ancestors, he couldn’t. The treaty signed by Prince Dareon when he’d brought Dorne into the realm peacefully and by marriage had given House Martell a wide array of freedoms the other Houses were unaccustomed to. They rarely used so, preferring the dagger of charm to the bludgeon of law, but the laws were on the books.

 

Trueborn children were primarily belonging to their father’s House, unless contracts explicitly stated that they would fall chiefly under matrilineal inheritance. In the case of baseborn children, the law was more murky and it was often left to the individual couples to decide the child’s placement. Most remained with their mothers but if a father were to demand it and was of the position to do so, they could take custody of the child. There were no set laws for them and, as a Lord Paramount, Ned hadn’t ever thought his guardianship would be challenged (for any of his children and Lyarra least, because who would demand a presumed bastard of an unknown mother from his home?). The Martells were loyalty though and, as with many in Dorne, valued bastards enough to explicitly state in the treaty that they held primacy over all bastard children sired by Martells of the blood.

 

In this case, were he to accept Aliandra Sand as Lyarra’s mother, they would hold primacy over her.

 

Ned was tempted to deny the connection, regardless of its many pitfalls. At the moment, House Martell presumed the Stark child with Martell blood was his daughter by Aliandra. If he denied this, Princess Elia’s kind but wholly inconvenient letter would drive their minds in another direction, one that Ned was loathe to lead them down. It would also raise inquiries about Lyarra’s heritage again, this time from people no longer dismissing it as a mere washerwoman with a second Great House involved. Inquiries that could lead his flimsy lie to easily break down and put his entire family, his dragon niece included, in mortal danger.

 

On the other hand, leaving Lyarra in Martell hands, irrespective of his own heartbreak in the loss of a child, would invite other worries. What if they discovered her true heritage? What if they inflicted pain upon her for her mother’s sake? What if they chose instead to mold her into a weapon against Robert?

 

 _‘What if I start another rebellion?’_ Ned instinctively shuddered at the thought. Rebellions had not been kind to the princesses of the realm at late; he couldn’t imagine Lyarra’s sweet, melancholy face bloodied and beaten or her torso riddled with knives or her body lying listless in a pool of blood.

 

Doran Martell was a reasonable man. Ned knew he had kept his brother from escalating hostilities against the crown after Princess Elia’s death. Mayhaps he could be persuaded from pulling a child from the only home she knew to a foreign land where her own appearance would be a black mark against her. He need solely convince the man that Lyarra was better raised in Winterfell.

 

After seven exchanges of letters, each one growing more desperate than the last, Prince Doran sent one final missive. His brother, Prince Oberyn, would be travelling to Winterfell to pick up their long-lost sun child. It was time for Lyarra Sand to come home.

 

x


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra wants more from the world. Oberyn wants a fur coat.

Chapter Two

 

At eight years of age, there were a few matters that Lyarra Snow took as unyielding truths in her life.

 

First, she was a bastard and thus, intrinsically inferior in the eyes of Lady Stark and those like her, compared to her trueborn siblings.

 

Second, her father, Lord Eddard Stark, was the strongest man in the world and nothing, neither armed men nor frightening storms nor going on a hunger strike for two whole days to be allowed in Robb’s swordplay lessons, could gainsay him.

 

Third, Winterfell was her home, would always be her home and would never stop being her home, because no matter how much Lady Stark requested it, her father assured her that she would never be fostered elsewhere. 

 

In the last few days, all of those assumptions had tumbled to the ground like a wavering tower of blocks left defenseless against Arya’s wandering hands. Winterfell would  _ not  _ always be her home because her father  _ couldn’t _ stand against everything, as  _ someone _ \- a prince, no less- was demanding that she be raised in her mother’s home.

 

Oh, and she had a mother. Lyarra Snow instinctively knew that she must have had one, everyone had a mother once, but now she had a  _ mother _ . A name and story and face and everything.  _ Aliandra Sand.  _ The baseborn daughter of Prince Lewyn- she was the granddaughter of a Kingsguard knight!- and a cypto- crypto- someone who likes doing puzzles. The man that had arrived to take her away had told her this and while Lyarra was poised to dislike him at first, despite the pretty color of his tunic and the kind smile he offered her when they met, she couldn’t. He had gifted her a golden locket shaped into a sun and inside, opened by a clever, delicate little copper latch, was a portrait of her  _ mother _ . A pretty woman of sharp angles on her face and amber-gold eyes, with hair in thick black curls (like her!) and a satisfied smirk on her face. 

 

It was the first piece of jewelry Lyarra Snow had ever received, and the most expensive gift too, but she valued it so much more for its history. Prince Lewyn had this commissioned for his daughter’s birth. It had been her  _ mother’s _ once and now it was hers and the man, who had introduced himself as Uncle Oberyn though Lyarra was far too shy to call a prince by such a familiar name, had promised stories of his Cousin Aliandra too. Her father had a strange cast to his features when Prince Oberyn said such, one she assumed to be grief as he quickly interrupted any storytelling to introduce the tall, lithe man to Lady Stark. The woman had her lips pressed together so tightly that it had looked like she was sucking a lemon. 

 

Lyarra didn’t begrudge her father his grief but she was still a bit cross with him for stealing Prince Oberyn. He was the best (and only) source of stories about a mother that she had! Why did Father take him away before she could learn even the flimsiest detail of her mother’s life? 

 

Her anger over that, slight as it was, only added to the grief she felt at learning her mother was dead. It wasn’t anything specific for Aliandra Sand herself but a simple longing to know the woman that brought her into this world. There was relief, too, that her mother hadn’t abandoned her for being a bastard and guilt, because she was relieved over her own mother being dead. All of that was compounded by a detached sort of wonder that people were fighting over _ her _ . 

 

Her, Lyarra Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, that House Martell wanted to raise in Sunspear, while Father wanted to keep her at home. Father obviously didn’t like Prince Oberyn, and the emotion was more than well-returned, a set that neither men had hid particularly well from the perceptive child. There had been all of that tension from dinner and Lady Stark was briefly distracted from staring down at her to fuss over Robb, who had declared another hunger strike in the face of her leaving to Dorne, despite his body still recovering from their last shared rebellion. 

 

Lyarra had unexpectedly joined in the side of the enemy by picking up a butter-slicked roll and stuffing it in her brother’s mouth, as he maintained his silent glare against an amused Dornish Prince. It’s not that she wanted to leave Winterfell either, and in fact, her heart ached at the mere thought of it, but this wasn’t a fight that they could sway either way. And if Lyarra did end up leaving, she didn’t want her brother fainting of hunger pangs before he hugged her goodbye. 

 

_ ‘Do I want to go to Dorne?’ _

 

The dark-haired girl didn’t want to _ leave _ Winterfell, certainly. The castle was her home, this was her family. She was a child of the North and excepting some trying moments with her stepmother, had lived a happy life here. Winterfell meant her father’s rare, booming laughter, Robb’s hands squeezing hers when nightmares struck, Sansa delighting in braiding ribbons in her curls and Arya peering up at her with guileless grey eyes as shattered glass rained at her feet. Even baby Bran, not yet two years old, would toddle over to her when she coaxed him to. This was her family. She loved them.

 

_ ‘But I have family in Dorne too.’ _ A lot of family. Prince Doran, her uncle, had three children of his own while Prince Oberyn was expecting a sixth daughter from his lover, Ellaria. He hadn’t said it outright but by the words he hadn’t said, particularly any claim of being wed, and Lady Stark’s icy-cold eyes made Lyarra think that they were _ bastards _ . Like her. ‘ _ He speaks of them so proudly.’ _

 

It bewildered her. Father loved her, of course he did, but Lyarra was a bastard. She had supper in her own rooms whenever guests arrived and stood back with the high-ranking servants’ children when the family was announced. No one had ever spoken as proudly of her as Prince Oberyn did of his children. 

 

_ ‘I want that.’  _ Lyarra wanted that pride. She wanted so many things. To travel the world, to read every book ever written, to learn to fight beside Robb… she wanted and wanted and wanted and sometimes, when it became too much, she closed herself under the coverlets, shrouded in body heat and darkness and scrunched her eyes so tightly closed that red blurs fell in the back of her eyelids. She told herself that she was a bastard and it was dangerous to  _ want _ and that she must stop. Sometimes it worked, for a short while, and then she would see something or hear something that made her  _ want _ again.

 

Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, with his smooth olive skin and quick-flitted grin and glittering eyes, made her ache in want too. She wanted to accept his offered hand and everything that came with it. She wanted a family that would introduce her-  _ this is Lyarra, she is a Martell-  _ and wouldn’t be ashamed of her. She wanted him to brag about her, as he did Obara and Nymeria and Tyene and Sarella and Elia, her  _ cousins _ that each had different mothers but were all claimed proudly by their father. She wanted to see the sands she’d been born into. She wanted to know of her mother’s life.

 

But Lyarra wanted to stay in Winterfell too. ‘ _ I’m being selfish and if I keep wanting than I won’t be having anything at all. _ ’

 

x 

 

Oberyn Martell wasn’t all that impressed with Winterfell. For one, it was cold. This may have been self-evident as this was the main seat of the North but Gods, was it cold. A man’s piss could turn to freeze into a sculpture within minutes of undoing his trousers, not that he was willing to test that theory lest he lost his balls along the way. Ellaria would be quite upset with him if he returned with  _ that _ aspect of his anatomy damaged. She probably wouldn’t mind injured knuckles all that much, which was good because Oberyn still hadn’t ruled out breaking Ned Stark’s overly large nose.

 

The reason for that neatly read into his second problem. He had expected his baby cousin’s upbringing to be bad with the mad harpy’s trout sister raising her but still found himself surprised when he arrived. No, that wasn’t the right word at all. Lyarra Snow had, for all intents and purposes, a good life as a bastard north of the Red Mountains. She was well-fed, kept in well-stitched clothes, if those made of inferior fabrics to her siblings, and educated as a low level member of the gentry. Likely Ned Stark meant her for a landed knight, a high-ranked servant or an established merchant or craftsmen. It wasn’t all that bad a life. The Viper had certainly seen bastards treated worse before. But while that would earn Oberyn’s disdain as a youth, it inflamed ire now in a child of his own blood. 

 

Lyarra was  _ two years younger _ than his next eldest daughter, Sarella. She was only a year older than Elia and had either of the two, or any of his daughters, truly, been treated thusly by others, Oberyn would have been furious. He was infuriated now in the skittish, hesitant manner Lyarra regarded him. He was infuriated in the whispers his own servants had carefully gathered from Winterfell’s younger ones- Ned Stark evidently couldn’t keep a firm hand on his own castle- and he was infuriated twice more that Lyarra Snow’s potential was being snuffed out. 

 

Carding through the intelligence, one could find a curious, gifted child that loved to read and desired to learn to fight. A child that fearlessly explored the Godswood, ran after her eldest brother in his games and had advanced far in sums (unsurprisingly for any child of Ari’s). A child who was slowly falling into the box drawn for her by a jealous, insecure woman, as a subtle distinction broke between herself and her siblings. 

 

That Ned Stark would not allow his eldest daughter to learn the sword, as he had his son, Oberyn could accept. He didn’t approve of it but he knew that many men shared such biases against their daughters. That he hadn’t pushed for Lyarra to join her sister’s harp and bells lessons or to take instruction from a dance master was inconceivable. That Lyarra almost headed to the lower tables when he arrived, before jerking backwards in remembrance of the upper dias, was intolerable. That her own half-siblings, though admittedly not in the plural, as the only redheaded girl seemed to follow her mother’s dictates, were slowly growing distant from her by the Lady Stark’s was unacceptable. 

 

And it was cold. No Dornish child should ever have to be raised in this biting, unforgiving cold. That was practically torture in and of itself.

 

No, Oberyn had swiftly decided, penning his response to Doran, Lyarra Snow simply must return to Dorne. His brother may have had some doubts about pulling the child away from the only home she had ever known but after taking a look into that home, Oberyn now knew this to be the best decision. There would be pain at first, certainly so, for Lyarra was a child that loved her half-siblings fiercely, but the young were malleable. She would flourish better with the sun at her brow, without the ice creeping upwards to choke the flowers bud in the beginning.

 

They would also leave as soon as the proper horses could be arranged. It was very, very cold.

 

His decision made, the Red Viper rose to track down his errant little cousin. The last servant he had tagged on her movements reported that she had left to the Godswood. Having never seen one of the infamous bone-white trees of the North before, Oberyn would take the opportunity to assuage this curiosity as well. 

 

‘ _ They’re not all too subtle with their staring _ ,’ Oberyn noted, amused. Whispers spread like wildfire throughout the castle, as they often did, when he arrived. Many of these servants were smallfolk that hadn’t the chance to travel outside of their isolated realm. Likely as not, he was the first Dornishman they’d seen yet, and as his reputation well-preceded him, they stared in the morbid fascination of one staring a deadly viper in the eye. All too aware of the poison at his bite but drawn regardless by the charm, the sensuality, of a beast wholly unknown to them. ‘ _ I’d bed the lady’s maid had I the time. _ ’

 

Not only was she a pretty woman of dark brown cut into a measured short style but whispers between the sheets might tell him more of Lady Stark’s household. Oberyn had already seen a few vital flaws to the Stark’s reign. There hadn’t been a single foster child, excepting of course an Ironborn hostage, which held its own dangers. He hoped they had the sense to keep their Heir away from a boy almost certain to be his enemy one-day, when he returned home. The Ironborn simply could not survive on their rocky terrain without reaving for long and if a friendship should start, it would make the eventual battle all the more difficult. There was a Sept in the courtyard too. Oberyn wasn’t all too vested in the Gods himself but even he wondered at its presence in the heartblood of the Old Faith. Then there was the lack of tail following him. Oberyn appreciated it but still wondered what the hells Ned Stark was thinking.  _ He _ certainly wouldn’t have trusted himself to wander a keep alone.

 

_ ‘At least Lyarra will be far away from here when the tower blocks fall,’ _ he determined. The Viper had wondered if Lyarra was even the child’s true name but when pressed for answers, Ned Stark claimed not to have heard her mother’s choice and named her himself. Oberyn was fairly certain he was lying- and Ned Stark was, by the way, an awful liar unbefitting of Ari’s lusts- but Ari was dead and gone. Lyarra the child had been raised and, unless she requested otherwise, Lyarra she would remain.

 

_ ‘Her health is good though. That is to her benefit.’  _ Not many young girls could make such a trek as he was doing now. It was to his ease as a warrior with a lengthy stride but impressive for a child. 

 

There weren’t many trees in Dorne, the soil hadn’t the nutrients to nurture such and the early forests had been rooted up long ago but there was an impressive variety here. Oberyn was studied enough to pick out the most common ones- oak, birch, pine, briar, ironwood- and appreciated it’s subtle color shifts of gradients of green, black and brown. It was a dull, understated sort of beauty when one looked through their eyes alone. If one engaged the other senses though, there was a quiet splendor in the Godswood. A hush to the trees that almost felt godly itself and the scent of loam, tree rot and damp leaves that added life and decay both to the air. There was a soft crunch of leaves and branches as his calfskin boots picked their way through the serpentine trails, and the wind whistled eerily through swaying branches. It wasn’t comforting in any manner but it felt… of balance.

 

_ ‘A good place to order your thoughts, _ ’ Oberyn idly summarized his next letter to his brother. 

 

The air began to condense into silvery mist around him, warmth effused from the famous hot springs of the North. When he stepped by a break in the treelines, Oberyn saw a mighty Heart Tree of bark as pale as Dawn was, with leaves that were not blood red but a darker garnet, above a reflecting pool that was nearly opaque for the misty vapors rising above it. Roots rose directly from the water itself and on one, her back tucked securely to where three trunks rose to form an arched seat of sorts, was his baby cousin. Her knees were pulled up and she was turned away from him, body half angled to a face in the trees, an old woman with eyes bleeding red sap and a snarling sort of frown, one preceding battle, as he knew, beside her. Oberyn watched in curiosity as Lyarra spoke to this vengeful creature in the tone one does for an affection grandmother or a devoted elderly aunt.

 

Ari’s gold sunburst locket was in her hand and Lyarra was showing it to the tree, speaking in an excited mummer of words he could not hear. Oberyn was a father of five, soon six hopefully, and he sent a brief prayer for Ellaria’s safe delivery, daughters though. He well knew of what little girls might be happily sharing and while it amused him to see this, he worried that she had not another girl-child or a woman to speak to instead. Had Lyarra not any friends here?

 

_ ‘Silly question,’  _ he amended afterward, ‘ _ Had she been allowed to make friends by the Lady Stark?’ _

 

Even had the woman not forbidden it herself, the attitudes of the Lady of the House always dwindled down to the servants. If Lyarra was unfavored by the trout, none would risk befriending her. Those that had the status to do so regardless, weren’t here because the Starks, for some reason, did not keep fosterlings. No matter. She would make friends aplenty in Sunspear.

 

Oberyn deliberately stepped more strongly on the ground as he approached. He had no desire to scare the child.

 

Lyarra Snow had keen ears though. Her head whipped towards him so quickly that her short, dark waves corkscrewed off her chin. Wide, violet eyed blinked owlishly for a moment and then she flushed, such a sudden, deep crimson shade, that Oberyn was immediately amused by the reaction. 

 

“Prince Oberyn!” Her young voice was light and airy, unlike either Aria’s soft, husky tone of Ned Stark’s firm timbre. This was in the way of girls though, so Oberyn thought nothing of it. 

 

“Lady Lyarra!” He chirped back, hoping to put her at ease. Aware of the height and strength between the two of them, he paused several feet away from her reach. The waters of the reflecting pool lapped at his boots. “How are you on this fine day? I had arrived to see the Heart Tree for myself but am quite pleased at finding company here.”

 

Her blush still strong, she scrambled down from her position and, this impressed him greatly, made a practiced leap from the root over the entirety of the pond and to the loamy ground. She hadn’t even stumbled. “Have you ever been to a Godswood before?”

 

“I have not,” Oberyn freely admitted. “There are a few in Dorne but they have all been petrified by the climate. They are trees of stones where the faces themselves cannot cry.”

 

Lyarra cocked her head to the side, a little unhappy. “There aren’t any Godswoods in the Dorne?”

 

“None that are live Heart Trees. We may take a sapling from here, if you should like.”

 

The dark-haired girl considered this for a moment and then shook her head sadly. “Heart Trees must be planted to the ground. They cannot be uprooted for more than a sennight before they wither.”

 

“And that would not be long enough for our travels, yes,” Oberyn observed. He sat down gingerly on the ground, inwardly pleased when the child did the same, and indifferent to the stains on his trousers. “Where did you learn that?”

 

“Edderrion Stark’s personal journal,” she admitted. “I don’t know how accurate it might be though. He traded with the Children of the Forest and claimed to burrow deep beneath the ground in his dreams.”

 

“Sounds an interesting man,” Oberyn commented. “And what else have you learnt of him?”

 

There was a wiggling to her posture as she hesitated over the next words. Oberyn knew  _ that _ very well. The child had learned a detail that she found either delightful or scandalous or both and was trying to figure out whether it was safe to tell an adult. To encourage her, he leaned in with evident interest, quirked his lips up in a conspirator’s grin. This won him a shy smile of her own and brightened eyes as the next words spilled from her lips.

 

“They called him Edderrion the Bridegroom because he ran away from three of his marriages and the family was constantly having to bring him to the altar.” The words spilled out in the rush of a scholar astounded over her latest find. “Everyone thought it was because his childhood love, a girl named Aly, died before they could be wed! But that’s not true because in the notebooks, he confessed that he didn’t love Aly at all but did love her older  _ brother _ , Alayn. Lord Edderrion loved a man!”

 

“Did he now?” Oberyn smiled when she nodded excitedly in response, awaiting his shock at the scandalous news. “Good for him then. Life is full of hardships but love can soothe pains in a manner that not even the greatest panacea in the world has done. Tell me, did he ever confess to the man?”

 

Lady Lyarra’s dark violet eyes, and Oberyn presumed that those had been an inheritance from a Dayne ancestor skipped many generations, were even wider than before. “Confess?”

 

“To Alayn,” the Viper confirmed. “It would be a happier tale if he confessed than if he did not, yes?”

 

Lyarra considered this and then nodded. “He did. Alayn worked as the Steward of Winterfell for all of his life and the journal said they were the dearest of friends. Edderrion still wed and he had a single child from that marriage but I think he was happy. Because he still had Alayn.”

 

“To have those you consider precious near you is a great blessing. It was why Doran and I desired to bring you to Sunspear.”

 

“I’m…  _ precious _ to you?” Lyarra Snow seemed utterly mystified by this. “Why? We have never known each other before today.”

 

“Perhaps not. But it is the way of the old generation to find all their children precious to them and you, Lyarra, as the daughter of my beloved- and only, admittedly- cousin, are a child of House Martell. We are kin, you understand.” He looked closely at this child, receiving a tentative bow of her head. “Your mother, Aliandra, was raised in Sunspear, as was your grandfather, Prince Lewyn and his father, and his, before him. We would like you to live there as well, as you may be raised closely to where those precious to you once were and still are.”

 

Lyarra Snow’s face folded into a stubborn frown. “Winterfell is my home. Father lives here and all of my brothers and sisters too.”

 

“Of course, they do,” Oberyn said soothingly. “They are also your kin and I would not begrudge you to write them and occasionally visit. But this was a decision made by your father and uncle, the Prince, for  _ your _ benefit.”

 

“My benefit?” Lyarra’s brow furrowed in confusion. It looked not unlike Sarella’s when a perplexing question was presented to her, such as why she should leave to have dinner, when she could enjoy her book instead. 

 

“Sunspear and indeed, all of Dorne, have much to offer you,” Oberyn chose his words carefully. “Mine nephew, the Prince Quentyn, has been fostered to House Yronwood since he was a lad of eight years. It was done by my brother for his benefit as is fostering traditionally done.”

 

The girl’s violet eyes shuttered. “Lady Stark tried to convince Father to foster me out when I turned seven years of age. Father refused.”

 

‘ _ She suspects that she’s being sent away in punishment, _ ’ Oberyn realized, inwardly wincing. The trout was not making matters easy for him. “You will not be sent away to a bannermen in shame, Lyarra. You will return home, to your birthplace, the land of your blood, and receive there the lessons and guidance to become a lady both House Stark and House Martell can be proud of.”

 

At her slightly loosened shoulders, he continued. “My love, Ellaria, has already prepared a room for you in Sunspear. It is plain, for we should like you to decorate it your will, but it shall always be yours for as long as you draw breath. Your cousins, eight in all, are eager to meet you. Doran has arranged a dowry for you-”

 

A sharp intake of breath met these words. Apparently Lyarra Snow was aware of dowering daughters. Her words came out in soft disbelief. “A dowry?”

 

“One equal to any of my daughters,” Oberyn assured. In truth, it would be higher. Ned Stark had attempted to refuse it, offering to provide one of his own but Doran refused so. If she was to be a Martell bride, she should be given a dowry by House Martell. The Stark had instead insisted that it was a father’s duty to see his daughter properly dowered and sent over documents providing his own, slightly more generous, offer. Doran had accepted and then added Ari’s portion on top of that, almost equalling Arianne’s dowry as the eldest child and only daughter of the Ruling Prince. If nothing else, Oberyn was impressed by the Quiet Wolf’s determination there. “Do keep in mind that a child must be four-and-ten in Dorne to even consider a marriage and that mine brother will be corresponding with your father to choose a proper bridegroom. One unlike Lord Edarrion, I think.”

 

This drew a small giggle from her. He continued onwards.

 

“More than that, Dorne provides a freedom to women that many other realms lack. Your father may have seen the advantage of raising you in a kingdom where a lady  _ can _ wield steel in her hand.”

 

Lyarra Snow was almost gaping at him now. “Steel?”

 

“My eldest daughter prefers the spear,” the Viper spoke, as if in shared confidence. “The others have not yet settled on a weapon but they are learning the basics of each. I would have you join them in Sunspear.”

 

A bemused smile crossed the child’s face. “Father’s letting me travel to Dorne to swordplay?”

 

“All fathers want the best for their children, Lyarra, and Dorne will be the best for you,” was Oberyn’s response. “You will be very happy there. I am certain of it.”

 

x

 

_ Scrapped the Gerold and Lyarra pairing. It just didn’t seem to fit by the time I was up to chapter two. I welcome any suggestions of replacement pairings, even if they’re not the end goal, I don’t mind writing rivalries over Lyarra’s heart here. There’s still time before anything develops in that direction, of course, as I intend to focus on her personal character growth and family bonds but I’m welcome to recommendations. I don’t mind recycling characters from previous pairings either. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra decides that she'll miss Winterfell. Then she decides that she won't.

Chapter Three

 

Lady Catelyn Stark took pride in the running of her household. She had the servants well in-hand, her children properly raised by the scriptures of the Seven Pointed Star and the respect of her husband’s bannermen. She was the penultimate hostess as her Septa had once raised her to be and, despite her own disdain of the licentious lot brought into her immaculate home by  _ Prince _ Oberyn Martell, invited her guest to Winterfell with all of the respect due to his station. The man was appointed to the most lavish rooms in the Guest Keep, assigned servants to supplement the mere three he’d brought along for the trip and treated with all of the aplomb she could muster for him. There had been the necessity for Catelyn to step primarily into the role of hostess, as her husband, bless him, couldn’t hide his mislike of the Prince. Catelyn herself could barely stand the so-called Red Viper but she would make due. He would be leaving soon and better yet, taking  _ the child _ with him.

 

Catelyn could have done without the knowledge that Ned had bedded  _ another _ Dornish beauty when he was promised to her. She certainly didn’t care for the impressed mutterings of the guardsmen or the male servants over their lord’s unexpected sexual prowess and modesty inherent in keeping silent. Nor did she relish the thought of her husband’s bastard being raised in a royal court, even a Dornish one, by a family that evidently didn’t follow the proper way of things. But then, it was a woman’s lot in life to accept all of those matters that she most definitely did not care for, as Catelyn had learnt when she arrived to Winterfell and found a babe in _ her _ son’s nursery. 

 

Catelyn hadn’t liked Lyarra Snow from the earliest day. Not the slightly long Northern face and dark brown hair, nor the deep violet of her eyes and Rhoynish curls. Neither did she particularly care for the way the bastard toddled after her elder brother, often being carefully led along by Robb’s hand, as the girl had been weak and sickly as a child. She’d had her concerns about the child’s Dornish blood showing through, bringing shame to House Stark with her beddings and possibly even seducing her own brother. The Gods knew that Dorne loved the dragons enough, who knew what depraved behavior they had adopted from House Targaryen? As a girl, Lyarra was unable to usurp her brother’s rightful inheritance but Catelyn wouldn’t have put it past her from leading Robb or another upright young man to stray. Quite like her mother did Ned.

 

‘ _ No surprise at all that a  _ bastard _ wouldn’t accept vows anointed in a Septon’s oils under the eyes of the Mother and Father _ ,’ Cat thought derisively. ‘ _ A whore with royal blood is still a whore in the end. _ ’

 

Not that it mattered. Lyarra Snow, or Lyarra  _ Sand _ as many of the servants called her now, wouldn’t be her problem for much longer. She would leave south with her cad of an uncle, be House Martell’s shame and problem and likely give her maidenhead away to a stable boy or a washer’s son. Her son would be distraught for a brief time but in the way of boys, he would forget about his bastard sister and find new playmates. The Greyjoy hostage, while still Ironborn, was also an Heir and would make a suitable playmate. And with Lyarra no longer around, perhaps Ned would finally accept her persuasion to take in fosterlings from the bannermen. He had put her off for years now about Robb having a readymade friend in his little sister.

 

‘ _ A few more days, Cat. Smile for a few more days and the bastard will be gone.’ _

 

It would be better for the child even. Catelyn could not love her. As a babe, she’d tried, if briefly, to find compassion in her heart for this motherless child. Those dark violet eyes set in Ned’s solemn face would always unravel her though. Lyarra Sand was so evidently a Northern child, a Stark child. At the same time, there was evidently signs of another’s touch on her brow, her lips, her eyes and her skin. Catelyn didn’t know which aspect of her blood infuriated her more and eventually, she stopped trying.

 

Mayhaps the child would find a mother in Dorne. Prince Oberyn’s paramour was a bastard herself.

 

As though her thoughts summoned the demon himself, Prince Oberyn turned the corner and paused in the corridor to nod to her. He was wearing his preferred Dornish garb within the hotspring-heated walls of the castle, a tightly fitted gambeson down to his knees in dusky gold, an open, short-sleeved overtunic in vibrant orange silk, gold-thread embroidery putting a spear-run sunburst on his chest and twining vipers down his arm, and brown leather trousers. A thrice-corded leather belt matched the shade of his calfskin boots and his black goatee was trimmed into a fine cut. The smile that he offered her was everything sharp and flashing, the glittering dark agates of his eyes languid as they took her form in. Catelyn stiffened against the dishonorable interest.

 

“Prince Oberyn.” She tried to maintain her vocal range but the words still came out frostily.

 

“Lady Stark, you look lovely this morning.” He pressed down a gallant kiss to the hand reluctantly offered him, and then rose and awaited. Apparently he would not continue moving forward.

 

“Thank you.” It was proper to return the compliment, so she considered a diplomatic response. “You look very refreshed, Your Grace. I hope that you’ve slept well.”

 

“Indeed, after all my years of travel, I’ve acquired that invaluable skill of drawing rest from wherever I may lay my head.”

 

_ ‘His travelling days… after Prince Doran banished him from Dorne for poisoning one of his bannermen.’  _ Catelyn inwardly balked. “I am glad for you, Prince Oberyn. Is there anything you should need of me?”

 

“If you have the time, I would like to discuss Lady Lyarra’s education thus far,” Oberyn responded. “I would have her attend the same lessons as my daughters in Sunspear but they have many masters and it shall be difficult to place her before I know of her skill.”

 

“Lyarra is, of course, training in all of the skills required of her station,” Catelyn answered stiffly, her mind flitting sourly to those lessons that should have solely been Robb’s. Ned, thankfully, wasn’t foolish enough to put his daughter into swordsmanship lessons but he did allow her to attend the advanced letters, sums and dictation lessons that Robb had. “She reads and writes well. Her sums are adequate. She knows a few of the North’s dances and can sew her own clothes. She understands basic management of a small holdfast. Her father takes her trapping occasionally.”

 

“Wonderful,” Oberyn spoke pleasantly. “And of courtly talents? Has she learnt any of those?”

 

“As I said, Lyarra is an acceptable dancer.” Catelyn frowned, a fissure of unease running through her. 

 

“Her schedule appears light to me.” The Viper shrugged. “Perhaps it is just my boundless energy but my mother, the Princess Maria, arranged many tutors for me as I grew. I did the same for mine daughters when it came their time. They’ve excelled in their lessons but it could be that I am too harsh on them and have not yet realized it.”

 

He paused, and then added. “It is admirable that your own children are gently eased into lessons.”

 

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed as the arrow hit home. “Lyarra is rather young as of now. There is time for her to learn other skills.”

 

“Of course, of course.” The man cocked his head to the side. She was reminded suddenly of how the bastard would do the same, a curious raven having found something shiny and interesting to peruse. Her lips thinned. “I would congratulate you on the Lady Sansa. You must consider yourself blessed.”

 

“All of my children are blessings to me,” the Tully threw back, and had the pleasure of narrowed dark eyes on her. “As a father, you must share the sentiment.”

 

“I do,” the Prince agreed. “All children are a blessing to their parent’s home. To a lord and lady though, to have a gifted child is a blessing all of its own. Lady Sansa must be a prodigy to attend harp and bell lessons before her own sister, whom exceeds her by- three, wasn’t it- three years. And sketching lessons as well. Quite lovely.”

 

“Sansa is a very talented child,” Catelyn replied frostily. She refused to rise to the bait. “Each of my children have learnt in accordance to their future needs.”

 

Her darling Sansa was raised to marry a handsome lord and be a lovely wife. Catelyn simply knew that her daughter would blossom in the Southron courts and nurtured her talents for that direction. The high harp, bells, sketching… what need would the bastard have for them? Her husband wouldn’t likely be the sort to appreciate any of the fine arts. 

 

“As the Lady Lyarra is not your child, you needn’t suffer over relinquishing guardianship of her  _ future needs _ , then,” the Prince spoke wryly. “I thank you, Lady Stark.”

 

“As she will soon be in your custody, you need not offer any gratitude for the responsibility.” 

 

“You misunderstand me, my lady.” The grin now was all flash and fang, displeased and willing to show so. “My gratitude was for your assistance in drawing judgement. Prince Doran sent me here to look into the life of our newly-discovered cousin. He had his reservations about bringing her to Sunspear, you see, as this was the only home she had ever known. Upon reflection, he ordered me to bring her home depending on what  _ House Martell _ believes is best for one of its daughters. You were instrumental in forming my ruling.”

 

“I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, Your Grace.”

 

“Allow me to make it simple then. Lyarra Sand will travel to Sunspear before she dies by your hand at Winterfell.”

 

_ “I beg your pardon!”  _ A rivertide of fury rose at the accusation that she would kill her husband’s bastard. “I have never harmed a child under my care.”

 

“She was hardly under your care all these years,” the Prince rebuked. “No, her upbringing would be vastly improved in  _ her mother’s _ House.”

 

“I will not pretend to have loved the child, Prince Oberyn.” Cat stood ramrod straight, drew upon all of her self-control as a daughter of House Tully-  _ family, pride, duty _ \- and took a sharp breath inwards. “And I will not suffer your rebukes for recognizing her as a stranger in my home. She was my husband’s bastard and it was neither my duty nor my desire to raise her. However, I have done so, and provided her the education owed to a daughter of Ned’s. Her life here has not been unhappy.”

 

“Neither, I would think, has it been happy.” The Prince’s eyes flitted away briefly and then came to her, looking a cold-blooded creature in more than just name. “It is irrelevant. The Gods have revealed my cousin and she shall come to Sunspear where she should have been raised from the beginning. You needn’t suffer the indignity of a bastard in your home any longer.”

 

Catelyn’s heart still pulsed in beat with her anger. “The Gods love my husband’s bastard well.”

 

“Do they not?” Oberyn said glibly. “I’ve spoken to Lyarra recently in the Godswood and she seemed quite happy there. Of course, Aliandra was a follower of the Seven. I shall have to introduce her to them as well. Can you believe that she has never stepped foot in a Sept? Even the one in Winterfell!”

 

Catelyn Tully stood there in utter horror. The Sept… the Sept was _ her _ sanctuary. It was the symbol of her Faith, of the love Ned had for her to build one here, of the indelible mark she had made to House Stark. It was something sincere and private and  _ special _ , shared with only her own children. Lyarra Sand had no right to step foot into that Sept. It would defile her one last refuge in Winterfell.

 

In her fury over the sacrilege of her fate, Catelyn lashed out. “The bastard would be wise to pray to the Stranger then! He, above all in the pantheon, favors the child well enough to ignore my pleas.”

 

Oberyn Martell’s eyebrows shot up. Catelyn didn’t notice it though because there was suddenly a sharp gasp from behind her. The Stark lady swiftly turned to look around, her heart dropping once Sansa’s startled, teary, river-blue eyes stared back at her. ‘ _ Oh Gods, she has heard me…’ _

 

Catelyn Tully had nearly drowned once. She had been twelve namedays old, dared to jump into a swift river current by Lysa, and simply foolish enough then to do so. At first, she had treaded water well, her own talents in swimming aiding her but then the force of the river started to overwhelm her. Her body was tossed back like a ragdoll, her head dipped underwater. She swallowed one mouthful of filthy water and then another, choking as her eyes began to sting. Her clothes felt a stone albatross around her neck, panic surged in her body and black spots appeared in her eyes. For a heartbeat, it had been as though the water had formed an arm to drag her thin body  _ down, down, down _ and into the maw of the river mud. Before her Uncle Brynden had rescued her, Cat had the brief thought that the water would be her grave that day.

 

With Sansa’s eyes looking at her in silent accusation, Catelyn felt, once again, like there wasn’t enough air around to keep her alive. 

 

She took a step forward. “Sansa…”

 

Her daughter turned from her and ran. 

 

x 

 

“We’ll barricade ourselves in the Broken Tower. Then we can throw stones at the Viper from the windows until he leaves.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Or if that doesn’t work, maybe you can pretend to be fall deathly sick? Prince Oberyn wouldn’t want to take you to Dorne if you’re infectious.”

 

“Mh-hmm.”

 

“Or maybe we should write a letter to Uncle Benjen. We’ll tell him that the Prince chose a life as a Black Brother. Then we’ll trick the Prince into visiting the Wall and he’ll have to stay there, if he doesn’t want to be beheaded for desertion!”

 

“I think that only counts if you make a vow before the Heart Tree or commit a crime.”

 

“Right,” Robb frowned, thinking through her words. “What if we frame Prince Oberyn for something really bad? Something that’ll get him sent to the Wall?”

 

Lyarra turned her head away from the window, where she could her newly discovered uncle practicing with his spear in the courtyard. He moved with fluid ease, the mark of a warrior adept with his chosen weapon. She looked disapprovingly at her brother. “That’s not honorable, Robb. We can’t do that.”

 

“Well, it’s not like you’re offering any suggestions!” He snapped back, his apple-round cheeks flushing crimson. There was still plenty of baby fat on the Stark Heir’s face, making her brother look silly with his reddish-brown hair and equally livid cheeks. “It’s like you want to leave with him!”

 

“No, I don’t!” Lyarra protested but it fell a little flat and she was treated to a betrayed gape instead. 

 

“You want to leave Winterfell?” Robb’s lower lip trembled as he glared at her. “Why?! You’re of the North, Lyaa and you belong here!”

 

“I know that,” the dark-haired girl answered defensively, “I just don’t think we should do something bad to my Unc- Prince Oberyn, just because his brother ordered him to come here.”

 

“He’s coming here to take you away,” Robb stormed. “He’s not a good man! Mother says he’s called the Viper because he poisoned somebody! And she says the Dornish are-”

 

“I don’t care what she said!” Lyarra snapped, momentarily surprised at her own vehemence, before continuing on. “Lady Stark isn’t always right. Prince Oberyn explained it to me. He says that I’m being fostered in Sunspear because it’s better for me. Even Father thinks so, that’s why he’s letting me go.”

 

“Father’s letting you go because there’s a stupid treaty made with the stupid Dornish after their stupid realm joined the kingdom,” Robb tossed back. “I don’t even know why we’re following it. They made that treaty with the dragons and the dragons are gone now.”

 

“Well, the  _ new _ King is following the treaty too, and he decided I have to go to Dorne.”

 

“I don’t like the  _ new _ King either then. Dorne is an awful place, Lyaa. It’s all hot and full of sand. The people are mean and they all poison each other.”

 

Lyarra folded her arms. “You can’t say mean things about the Dornish.  _ I’m _ Dornish.”

 

“No, you’re not! You’re of the North!”

 

“I’m of Dorne too! I was born there and so was my mother!”

 

“I don’t care about your mother! I wish you’d never learnt of her!”

 

“Well, I wish I’d never learnt of you!”

 

At once, Lyarra noted the sudden silence between them. She didn’t know how wide and glossy her own eyes were, as she looked into the regret-filled light blue orbs of her brother. He appeared stricken for a moment and her own heart squeezed in sudden guilt and recrimination. The two suddenly spoke over the other.

 

“Robb, I’m so so-”

 

“-rry, Lyarra, I didn’t mean it!” 

 

The two fell silent for another heartbeat, registering the other’s apology before Lyarra decided to the hell's with it, and threw herself at the other end of the bed. Robb made a strangled scream as he fell backwards against the headboard, hitting his skull against the smooth wood, as she buried her head in his chest. Her skinny arms encircled him tightly and the dark-haired girl decided, as she unintentionally stained her brother’s clean shirt with snot, that  _ he _ was being a stupid boy. 

 

_ ‘I’m going to miss you so much, _ ’ Lyarra thought. Outloud, she demanded roughly. “Letters, every sennight. If you don’t, I’ll ride back north and use my amazing sword fighting skills to beat you up.”

 

“You don’t have any sword fighting skills.” Was Robb’s unhelpful contribution as her hugged her back. 

 

_ ‘I’m not going to miss him at all, _ ’ Lyarra promptly corrected.

 

x

 

_ Thank you to everyone who made romantic suggestions! I’ve taken them to heart by deciding, eh, why not go with all of them. Or almost all of them, as the following will be represented in some form or another in the story: Willas Tyrell, Quentyn Martell, Aegon VI Targaryen, Domeric Bolton, Monford Velaryon, Aurane Velaryon, Edric Dayne and Addam Marbrand. Not all will be equally represented and there may be others added later on. The final pairing is undecided.  _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doran's next headache: the budding explosions connoisseur.

Chapter Four

 

The sunlight felt too bright on the day that Oberyn Martell would take Lyarra Snow out of Winterfell. At least, that was the impression that Ned Stark had on this remarkably fine Northern day. The sky was a full expanse of robin’s egg blue, clouds dashed white across the heavens, the rays of light were plentiful and languid and the wind, a crisp, playful breeze. It was that rare summer’s day that would have had his children begging for early ends to their lessons, so that they may explore their family’s keep and the surrounding countryside with free abandon. It was that rare summer’s day that mocked him now as Lyarra was lifted into a Stark wheelhouse by the atypically gentle Viper.

 

_ ‘Thundersnows and ice storms should rage when Lyanna’s only child is swept away to Dorne, _ ’ Ned felt, looking critically at each of his children. Catelyn was inside today, the better for the both of them as the Quiet Wolf couldn’t bare to look at his wife now.  _ ‘The Viper comes into my home, sups at my table, sleeps in my bed and then leaves me a marriage in shambles and a daughter lost.' _

 

Though Ned wasn't callous, or perhaps naive, enough to blame it on the Dornish Prince alone. He had been confused when Sansa ran to his solar in tears, begging him to keep the Stranger from stealing Lyarra away. The Stark Lord had initially thought his daughter to be referring to Oberyn but as the story unfolded, his confusion turned to upset, than anger, than agony at the words spilled from his most innocent daughter’s lips. Sansa wasn’t one to lie, nor would any of his children malign their mother in such a way, so Ned was forced to accept the truth. When he did so, his reaction was not smothering fury, however quietly it stirred in his breast now, but a sudden loss of understanding, an uncertainty about the world that he hadn’t since his father and Brandon died their brutal deaths.

 

_ ‘How could she?’  _ He kept asking himself this, unable to find an acceptable answer. Catelyn was a pious woman. She  _ believed _ in the Seven and their prayers; she had genuine faith that a plea made, at the altar of a southron deity by a true believer, would come true. This was not words thrown in a tempest or even a sudden act brought by heightened emotions… his beloved Cat had wanted Lyarra to  _ die _ . ‘ _ She was a babe. An innocent. Even if you were unable to forgive my transgression, why take it out on the one person unable to fight back against you.’ _

 

Ned had taken the barest efforts to soothe his daughter’s fears, still in a medley of shock, uncertainty and upset, before rushing to Catelyn to find the truth. Gods, had he hoped it wasn’t true. Yet for all the denials falling from her lips, the pleas, the excuses, the flimsy explanations, her eyes had shuttered his own heart shut. It was truth. Sansa had not misspoken or misunderstood. Catelyn had… she had wanted to murder his own kin.

 

Ned’s fury wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t the shocking thunder snow of Brandon, the summer storm of Lyanna or the encroaching ice of Benjen. His anger was a steady snowfall, foreseen and unremarkable, until one’s entire keep was buried under several feet of snow. His anger smothered one’s breath and stole the warmth from one’s lungs, perhaps not as fiercely or suddenly as his siblings would, but with a surety that lasted for years. 

 

Ned had banished Catelyn to her own rooms for the duration of the Viper’s visit. The Quiet Wolf needn’t his wife revealing any more culpable information to a man that was, by far, too provocative and observant for anyone’s good. Then he had ordered the Sept torn down, not immediately, no, but as soon as the damned Dornishman left. The Sept had been a sign of his love for his wife, and perhaps a bit of guilt over the mummer’s show of Lyarra’s birth. That she had attempted to weaponize it against a Stark- any Stark, and especially a babe- was unacceptable. He had momentarily suspended his daughter’s lessons with the Septa, silencing her protests with a swift look, and told his children to share the time they had left with their sister.

 

It was precious little, as it was. Despite Ned being as unhelpful as he could possibly be on the matter, Oberyn Martell had managed to get his cousin’s clothing and personal effects packed with alacrity. He had rented a wheelhouse from the nearby town, after Ned refused to lend his own, and bought provisions from there as well. By raven, he had arranged an itinerary and schedule with the Dornish Captain that had brought him here and capped it all off by taking Lyarra to Wintertown to purchase Northern gifts for her Dornish cousins.

Everything thusly had been concluded within a sennight. The goodbyes proceeded as well as could be expected, with Sansa starting to cry before Lyarra had even extracted herself from Robb’s arms. His eldest son had thankfully not taken to a temper over his sister leaving, preferring instead to glare balefully at an Oberyn Martell that was  _ not _ helping by cheerfully waving at the boy. Bran, now dozing away in his nurse’s arms, had sleepily accepted a goodbye kiss with minimal squirming. Arya had done the same, looking confused by the gesture, before Lyarra was raised into the carriage.

 

At that point, it seemed to have dawned on Arya Stark that her sister was leaving. 

 

“No!” A heartbreaking screech was accompanied by the three-year-old child fitfully kicking at her nurse’s body. “I wanna go with Lyaa! I wanna go with Lyaa!”

 

Ned hurriedly took his daughter before the startled servant could drop her. He winced as one of her flailing arms hit his face. “I WANNA GO WITH LYAA!”

 

“You can’t!” Robb shouted back, red-faced. “Lyaa’s leaving!”

 

“NO, LYAA, COME BACK!” Arya twisted around in his arms and Ned nearly dropped her. The wheelhouse door closed but his dark-haired eldest was sitting, wide-eyed, against the window. “I DON’T WAN’ YOU TO GO!”

 

“COME BACK, LYAA! COME BACK!” Arya shouted out, tears and snot coming out as her voice broke. “ _ DON’T LEAVE ME!” _

 

_ “TAKE ME WITH YOU!”  _

 

x

 

Lord Alleric Dayne of Starfall looked around with approval at the ready-set table awaiting him. Freshly steamed fish with lemon juice, hot buttery loaves of bread, a stuffed peasant that had been shot by the hunting party earlier, apple tarts from Starfall’s own orchard and a two-layer cream cake spread with persimmon jelly. Everything looked appetizing and elegant, a casual evening meal that any hostess would have been proud of. 

 

“Well done, Sister,” Alleric complimented, proud that the thirteen-year-old girl had come so far in her house management lessons. He received a shy smile in return. “I’ll rue the day a suitor comes to steal your talents from my table.”

 

He was amused to find this elicited a blush on her pale golden skin, though she couldn’t yet muster the courage to inquire as to whom it may be. No doubt Allyria’s mind had flitted to Beric Dondarrion, a Stormlord that had made the trip directly to Starfall in hopes of negotiating a match with the beautiful Dornish noblewoman. Lord Beric, handsome, honorable and genial, if a bit boisterous, had made quite the positive impression on his little sister. In truth, the man had impressed Alleric as well, and a betrothal might have been set if he hadn’t received notification of the Martells actions today.

 

“Try the poppy seed one, Brother,” Allyria nudged the platter towards him. “The sailors caught a lot of white tuna today and I know that’s your favorite.”

 

“It’s not Lord Beric’s favorite,” Edric added, falsely innocent, “He’s allergic to tuna, isn’t he, Aunt?”

 

Allyria reddened and then promptly cuffed the back of her nephew’s head. “Hush, you.” 

 

“Thank you, Ally. I believe I will.” Alleric intervened before any bickering could break out. A few minutes were spent with the three Daynes in the table filling their plates. Occasionally a lavender-clad servant would step forward to add additional platters or refill empty goblets but for the most part, the dishes were close at-hand and easily accessible. 

 

As Alleric took his first bite of the meal, savory lemon-tinged tuna on his tongue, he considered the implications of House Martell raising Visenya Targaryen as their own bastard cousin. The Dayne Lord hadn’t yet determined whether the decision was purposeful- though Oberyn jumping to conclusions and outright assuming the child to be Aliandra Sand’s wasn’t all too farfetched- and that was unfortunate. He could make far more astute decisions on the course of his family’s future had he known this most important detail. 

 

Nonetheless the possibility that House Martell might make a bid to retake the throne, with Rhaegar’s youngest as their spearpoint, precluded any match between Allyria and a Stormlord. Lord Beric Dondarrion was a good man but he was also a dutiful one and Alleric would not have his sister become a hostage to her own husband. She would have to make a match with a good, loyalist House or simply one in Dorne. If that also meant she would live closely to him and he needn’t lose another sibling to war and strife, well, Alleric could accept that.

 

‘ _ That should teach Ned Stark not to leave his lies so open-ended too, _ ’ Alleric smirked. He accepted the necessity of implying Ashara’s name to hide the princess’ identity and thus, hadn’t refuted the rumors. He wasn’t even too upset over the matter. How could he be when his sister had given permission for the falsehood before her untimely death? Acceptance did not translate to pleasure though and Alleric took a perverse pleasure in Ned Stark having to deal with another pair of upset brotherly figures over his presumably dishonoring their sister.

 

_ ‘He’s lucky that we’re Dornishmen with common sense. Stark wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far with Ashara as he did if she did not permit it, and I’ll presume the same for Aliandra as well.’ _

 

Alleric had spent enough years fostering in the Water Gardens to know the baseborn Martell cousin. Ari would have cut the wolf’s balls off had he tried anything untoward and unwanted. She’d been a lovely, strong-willed woman and another feather to Ned Stark’s cap that was wholly undeserved.

 

“There’s something that I would like to speak of today,” Alleric began, once the dinner plates had been cleared and dessert brought over. “I’ve sent a request to Prince Doran and have received a reply. He has agreed that his brother, Oberyn, could take on another boy to squire. You’ll start as a page first, of course, and will share lessons with Daemon Sand, Bastard of Godsgrace, but I think it’s a good opportunity for you, Edric.” 

 

“Page?” His son’s blue-violet eyes widened. “To  _ Prince Oberyn _ ?”

 

“Indeed. They do us a great honor.” Alleric paused. “The Prince Oberyn is a skilled warrior and you would do well to listen to his words on battle and strategy and  _ only _ on those subjects.”

 

The blonde-haired boy appeared confused by this distinction but nodded regardless, trepidation and excitement warring in his eyes. “I will do our House proud, Father.”

 

“I’m certain that you will,” Alleric said warmly. He often regretted that he and his dearly departed wife had managed only one child but never more so, than when he saw how lonely young Edric was. “Allyria, you will be travelling to Sunspear as well, to be a lady-in-waiting for Princess Arianne.”

 

“I will?” A minute frown crossed his sister’s face as then she hesitantly looked towards the pleased child. “Brother…”

 

“I shall make as many trips as I reasonably can to visit you,” Alleric stated calmly. He would prefer the discussion not turn to the grievous injury he had lately received in the Greyjoy Rebellion. The maester had done well to clean and bind it but it suffered him ill now and weakened him beyond his age’s measure. Allyria fretted over it endlessly, while Edric remained ignorant of it. “However, it shall be for the betterment of our House if we were involved more at the royal court.”

 

“Brother, Edric is your only son and Heir,” Allyria interjected. “Would it not be wiser to have him squire to a knight of House Dayne, that you may continue his lessons from home?”

 

“As I said, our House cannot seclude itself from the rest of Dorne,” he refuted. “I understand your concerns, Allyria, and have taken steps to amend it. While in Sunspear, Edric will continue undertaking lessons from tutors and may occasionally even benefit tuition from one of the finest minds in Dorne, our own ruling Prince. This is an inestimable opportunity for him.”

 

And if it should give Alleric a chance to take measure of the Princess Visneya or foster a friendship between the two, all the better. Edric’s lessons would be a cut more advanced than expected for the son to a minor, if wealthy, House and would be open to any friends that he should make there. 

 

“As you say, Brother.” Allyria nodded to him. She turned a small curve of her lips to her nephew. “You know, Edric, Prince Oberyn will have five daughters  _ and _ a newly found niece staying with him. No better opportunity for you to find yourself a pretty girl and fulfill your duty by expanding the family, don’t you think?”

 

Edric turned bright red. Alleric bowed his head to hide his smile at the two children that he had the occasionally dubious delight of raising. Allyria lifted up her wine glass and smirked. And life went on as it always had within the ancestral seat of House Dayne. 

 

x 

 

“Open your mouth now, that’s a good girl,” Oberyn coaxed, as he pushed a crystal decanter of mint green towards the dark-haired child. Lyarra obediently tilted her head backwards, a brief interlude of straight white teeth before she greedily drank down the elixir. A disgusted look crossed her face as the pleasantly-coloured drink defied expectations to taste akin to charbroiled pigskin bathed in vinegar. 

 

“Tell me when your stomach settles, so that you may have a light supper,” the Martell prince ordered, receiving a nod. He turned and washed out the empty vial before tucking it away in his alchemy set. He hadn’t thought a need for it on this trip but was glad that Ellaria insisted he pack it. Lyarra, the poor child, had need to consume two soothing mixes for her seasickness already. “Do you have the sick bucket with you?”

 

“Yes, Nuncle.” The child still blushed endearingly when she enunciated the word, with all the careful vowels of one determined to mimic his soft Dornish drawl. Oberyn thought to tell her that his accent was a medley of influences born of travel and that her attempts to learn it wouldn’t blend her in with anyone but it was too adorable to stop. “Will we reach a port soon?”

 

“Not for another day and merely to restock on freshwater and foodstuffs. We’ll stay in the cabin.”

 

The dark-haired girl nodded again, though a brief flash of disappointment crossed her face. Oberyn had discovered, when they spent a day within White Harbor, being supped by House Manderly, that Lyarra hadn’t travelled anywhere outside of her lonely corner of the world. This, he had decided, was a tragedy and informed her that he would arrange a trip to Essos after she settled in for a few moons at Sunspear. By habit, he tied it into a lesson for her, insisting that she should pick one of the Free Cities and learn the basic vocabulary of their eventual destination. As her eyes lit up at the prospect of it, the Viper considered that the bribe may have been unnecessary. Lyarra, like Sarella, had a truly wonderful thirst for learning within her.

 

_ ‘Thankfully the trout failed to shame that desire from her.’  _ Oberyn would have indulged his cousin’s curiosity with port cities along their path, had it not meant travelling to Gulltown, the Whispers, King’s Landing or Stonehelm along the way. He had no desire to walk the Vale or the Stormlands with a child in tow. “What would you like for supper?”

 

“Sardines and crackers,” the child responded promptly, making him smile. She had been red-eyed and quiet ever since their departure from Winterfell and to draw her out of her melancholy, Oberyn had started sharing tales of his own adventures. Lyarra had been fascinated by the sailors of the Summer Island and declared that she, too, would become a sailor. Her initial efforts were hampered somewhat by the revelation that Lyarra’s stomach disagreed- fiercely- with moving water but she made an earnest effort to stay to the sailor’s diet still. “Can I have watered down rum too?”

 

“No.” Oberyn made to put the kit away but saw dark violet eyes avidly follow it. “Is your stomach still troubling you?”

 

Lyarra shook her head. “You can make medicines?”

 

“A few,” the Viper allowed, deciding not to delve into his preference for poisons instead. “The one you tasted is a common remedy for seasickness that pairs well with anises and quinces to settle one’s stomach. It was created by the Alchemist’s Guild a good thirty or so years ago.”

 

The dark-haired girl cocked her head to the side. “Aren’t the maesters the ones to make medicine?”

 

“Yes but maesters have recently come to predominance in Westeros. They have only been the default healers for four centuries.” At her startled look, he smiled. “It’s long for us, yes, but in the way of things, the world existed long before us and shall continue to exist long after. We survive as we will in the time we have and seek to make some small contribution of our own as proof that we were here to do so.”

 

Lyarra took this in for a minute and then asked, “Can I make the medicine?”

 

“The seasickness remedy? Certainly. I have the agents here and when you have need of it next, you may help me make it.”

 

For this, Oberyn was treated to a wide and sincere grin, rarely shown in the tucked away smiles and mirthful eyes that Lyarra Sand normally greeted the world by. “Thank you, Nuncle.”

 

He waved it off. “It’s a pleasure to have another Martell to meddle in alchemy with. It’s a dying art.”

 

At her inquisitive look, he expanded. “The maesters have taken on several of the fields that were primarily under the purview of the alchemists, particularly medicine and metallurgy, after the dynastic change. It’s a shame, of course. While the maesters do good work, they’re less willing to delve into the less applicable fields of the art or experiment for the sake of experimenting.”

 

“Did my mother practice alchemy?” Lyarra inquired softly.

 

This had been another thing Oberyn had carefully encouraged. Lyarra had not been a child encouraged to ask many questions but neither had Ned Stark been one to deny her, except on the subject of Cousin Ari. The Martell prince had made it clear that he was willing, and indeed eager, to introduce her to this aspect of her heritage. Lyarra was to ask as many questions about her mother as she wished.

 

“She did not but she practiced a related art, cryptography,” Oberyn answered. “She was particularly adept in the art of using numbers to form her own codes. You’d find the talent useful as an alchemist, as the field is determined to keep its secrets, particularly the more… interesting concoctions that they devise from common hands.”

 

“Interesting?” 

 

“Dangerous.”

 

“Ah,” Lyarra mused. “A lot of alchemists are cryp-to-graph-ers then?”

 

“All alchemists are cryptographers, though not every cryptographer is necessarily an alchemist.”

 

“What my mother learned… can you teach me?”

 

“We can have our first lesson now,” was Oberyn’s reply, as he walked to another trunk in his cabin, rummaged within and then grandly unveiled the board. “Have you ever heard of the Philosopher’s Game?”

 

At her refusal, he explained. It was a rare, advanced mathematical board game originating from Lys that set opponents onto a limited battlefield where pieces were captured by complex number theory. Often used as a teaching aid, it was similar if not exact to cyvasse and far less popular due to the intellectual rigour it demanded. Limited to four pieces- rounds, triangles, squares and pyramids- that were all inscribed with a set of numbers, it added to its natural difficulty by making pyramids a collection of pieces, instilling multiple methods of capturing another piece and devoting victory not to whomever caught the other pieces but could arrange an arithmetic progression of them. All of the Martells were taught it to some extent or another but only Doran and Aliandra had truly excelled.

 

It was also the ideal first step for a budding cryptographer. Or, he amended, thinking to the bright, unveiled interest in her eyes when she caught sight of the kit, for a budding explosions connoisseur. 

 

“Here, both of shall have a parchment and ink to calculate our sums. This one needn’t be filled entirely as we will be starting with the basics. We will each have eight rounds…”

 

x


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra meets the Sand Snakes.

Chapter Five

 

_ ‘Sunspear _ ,’ Lyarra thought, ‘ _ Was something out of a dream.’ _

 

Aptly named, for the golden light that bracketed the sandstone walls lit the castle from within as a  living, flickering torch. There wasn’t the sprawl of buildings within a centralized wall as there was in Winterfell but layers upon layers of floors built carefully atop the others. The two highest towers, that her nuncle had named the Tower of the Sun and the Spear Tower, reached hundreds of feet up into the heavens, until the very point of the silver-tipped steel reached past her sight. The architecture was unlike anything the dark-haired girl had seen before, with arched windows and tower bridges that curved gracefully through the air. Surrounded by the sea on three sides and by homes and bazaars of sun-baked clay, it sat a formidable fortress to necessitate naval blockade and traditional siege. 

 

If Winterfell had hunkered behind the Wolfswood, cloaked in the protection that the land offered it, than Sunspear stood in defiance of its own lands, a bright beacon of past ingenuity and resistance. It was a symbol of a people that would proudly march onto inhospitable climes, set down their flag and declare their every right to live there, regardless of nature’s take on the matter. Altogether fitting if Dorne was formed of people that were more or less different shades of her Nuncle Oberyn.

 

_ ‘There are also, _ ’ the child astutely noted, ‘ _ Many stairs.’ _

 

House Martell must have strong calves from all the walking. Lyarra tested her theory by discreetly observing her nuncle’s ones. She wasn’t an expert on the matter but they seemed fit enough. 

 

“Are you done admiring me, Lyarra?”

 

She blushed at finding herself caught out, heard him smother a chuckle and then, having been encouraged to be blunt and even mulish over the trip, responded. “Not yet, thank you.”

 

Inwardly though, the dark-haired girl bemoaned her pale, Northern skin, as easily given to blushes as it was. Nuncle Oberyn’s propensity for japes and teases were not helping!

 

_ ‘At least I don’t sunburn, _ ’ she cajoled herself, perking up. Lyarra must have inherited that from her  _ mother _ , as Nuncle Oberyn proudly proclaimed, when she didn’t wilt in the slightest bit at the heat. While there was still a fine sheet of sweat on her brow, it was more from the exertion of walking to the castle than the heat, languid and heavy and coiled comfortingly in her chest. The dark-haired girl was almost skipping now to keep up with the older man’s brisk pace but she didn’t mind overmuch. While there was much to be seen in Sunspear, she was more eager to meet more of her family members.

 

_ ‘I wonder what they’re like.’  _ Lyarra hoped that they were as kind as her nuncle was, if perhaps less given to teasing her. ‘ _ I want them to care for me.’ _

 

There were three distinctive layers within Sunspear, though at certain points it became indistinct by buildings and tunnels connected to one another. The bottom-most layer included defensive towers, two gatehouses, the stables, gardens, barracks, smithy and armory. There were nearly a dozen barbicans that they swiftly passed by, narrow corridors below walls where she peeked slits for arrows and holes for burning oil. The middle layer included a Great Hall, the kitchens, the bakehouse and brewery and a Sept. The topmost layer had the Main Keep, the Guest Hall, the library towers and the Royal Seat of Dorne, which her Nuncle Doran had apparently not sat in for years. The Main Keep was where they would meet the others and Lyarra was so busy admiring the bustle of the castle around them, while painstakingly avoiding the curious gazes of the servants, that she almost missed them. 

 

In the end, the lack of physical resemblance between the many assembled females was what caught her wandering eyes. The first to do so was a sharp-paned woman with dark hair, even darker eyes and an outrageously fat stomach. Lyarra’s initial thought was that perhaps she didn’t take advantage of the stairs in the keep as she ought before common sense told her that this would be Ellaria Sand, her evidently  _ very  _ pregnant quasi-aunt. Taking a closer look at her, revealed a gentle smile on a face that was not expressly attractive but quite striking and self-confident. Lyarra hadn’t ever seen such an assurance on a woman’s face before- even Lady Catelyn walked with caution in her husband’s home- and immediately decided that she liked this woman at once. 

 

Next to her was a girl roughly her height, perhaps a few inches taller, with the same black hair but lovely almond-shaped amber-toned eyes. She shared the same with the other girls actually, from the tall, muscular one with delightfully shining copper hair, to the willow-reed slender one in lustrous red silk, to the one that looked more fitting for a princess than any she had ever known. The sole one’s whose eyes she could not see had teak-colored skin also unfamiliar to her and short, brown curls buried in a book. She was leaning against the wall rather than standing patiently for them and Lyarra felt immediately intrigued when she nudged her head a little to the side but was unable to read the writing. Whatever the book was about, its contents weren’t written in Westerosi. 

 

At this point, she realized that the others’ attention was focused on her and, feeling suddenly shy, she sidled a little to the left, where her nuncle’s height would partially keep her from view. A peal of ringing laughter filled the air and she ducked her head down further, even more embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to show herself a craven!

 

“This one will be yours, Sarella!” A heavenly chirp spoke out and the lovely blonde one sharply poked the one reading a book at her side. “Get your head out of the book! We have a cousin to corrupt.”

 

“She’s a rather small thing, isn’t she?” The copper-haired one said dubiously.

 

“She’s my age!” The one with amber-toned eyes and her dark hair wrapped into a single braid piped up. Lyarra shrunk further into Nuncle Oberyn’s shadow, the other girl merely walked around the man and brightly grinned down at her. “I’m Elia!”

 

“Hello,” was her far softer response. “I’m Lyarra.”

 

“You’ll have to speak louder if you want us to hear you.” The willow-reed one walked around as well, leaning down to look at her with lustrous blue eyes. “Ah, you’ve inherited the curls. Find me later, sweetling, and I’ll teach you how to manage them in all this heat and humidity.”

 

“I’ll teach you how to shade those eyes!” The blonde was suddenly there too, and Lyarra shrunk back, even as the other girl dragged the book-reading one by hand. “Such a lovely violet color! Have you gotten that from the wolves?”

 

“The Starks have grey or dark brown eyes,” was the teak-skinned one’s contribution. Her head was cocked in a considering matter not dissimilar to Lyarra’s own, as she felt a prickling up and down her skin. It felt like the other girl was swiftly pulling her apart and then putting the pieces back together, with the occasional mix-up in assembly. “There was a Dayne marriage a few years ago. I suppose that’s why people presume you’re Lady Ashara’s instead of Cousin Aliandra’s.”

 

“Lady Ashara?” Lyarra parroted in disbelief. Her father had had _ another  _ affair?

 

“I know.” The blonde one nodded agreeably. “It surprised me as well.”

 

Feeling suddenly defensive of Eddard Stark, the she-wolf objected. “Father is an honorable and dutiful man and he can be very kind-”

 

There was another burst of ringing laughter before the girl replied merrily, “Certainly so! But these are qualities one desires in a husband, not a _ bed partner _ .”

 

_ ‘Aren’t they meant to be both?’ _ Lyarra felt confused. Before she could pursue this line of thought into a rabbit hole that, in retrospect, maybe she should’ve stayed silent about, Nuncle Oberyn interrupted.

 

“My darling daughters!” The man announced loudly from where he stood, bathed in the sunlight and his dark hair gleaming molten gold, not unlike a warrior from the Age of Heroes, “I’ve come home from a long journey and received nothing in the way of affection from you! Not a hug, nor a kiss, nor even a mere ‘welcome’ from the children beget from mine own loins!”

 

He had scarcely finished this before Elia tackled him as a well-honed arrow might and two of the elder ones swooped in to kiss each cheek. The teak-skinned one, Sarella she presumed, rolled her eyes once, as she was folded into an embrace while the tallest one with the copper hair merely offered a sardonic ‘hello’. As Lyarra watched this with the silent appreciation and wistfulness of a child torn from her own father, Ellaria Sand made her way to her. 

 

“Welcome to Sunspear, Lyarra,” the woman said in a warm, dusky tone. “We’re all very happy to have you here.”

 

She nodded slightly in response, looking down at her sandal-clad feet. Nuncle Oberyn had insisted on purchasing a pair at their last stop. “Thank you, Aunt Ellaria.”

 

As she was looking down, Lyarra was unable to see the widening of the woman’s eyes or the the pleased expression that briefly crossed her face.

 

“There’s been a room made up for you in the Tower of the Sun, where the family quarters reside,” Ellaria continued, offering her hand. “It’ll take a few stairs to reach it and in my condition…”

 

Lyarra’s many years of experience with Old Nan immediately rose to the surface. Briefly forgetting that she was a stranger in an exotic and unfamiliar land, that the fierce clawing of her father and siblings still pulled at her, that she was uncertain and afraid in this new world, Lyarra offered her arm to help her pregnant aunt.

 

x

 

While Obella’s comment could have been phrased more delicately, she was not necessarily wrong, Ellaria found. The dark-haired child that Oberyn had brought home was a short, slender little thing, sharing a build not uncommon to Dorne and similar to the one Aliandra was purported to have had. Her hair was of thick, Rhoynish locks, just barely past her shoulders, and with a heavy fringe that was parted in the middle to reveal the pale skin of her forehead. She had the same almond-shaped eyes as any of the Sand Snakes but they shone a viridescent violet hue, a shade that glimmered strange and fae-like as the light caught it. Not that it did all that often, as the child had hunched shoulders and a bowed head despite her darting, bright-eyed, curious gaze. 

 

That gaze widened with unabashed delight as Lyarra was ushered into a mid-sized room by the Eastern walls. The arched windows and balcony here provided unparalleled views of the sun rising from the sea and while it was sparsely furnished at the moment, it held everything a child should need. There was a featherbed with cotton sheets and a lightly woven blanket by her own hand, an armoire with two sets of clothing made in Elia’s size, a set of drawers by the bed, two oil lanterns and a trunk carved with an array of sunbursts. There was a single wall hanging of the Martell banner and pale orange silk curtains that kept the glass doors and the arched window from view.

 

Her daughter, who had cheerfully followed behind while the others remained with their father, added more detail. “You and I shall have to share a garderobe and boudoir but I do not spend so much time with my appearance in the morning- not like Tyene or Nymeria anyway, you should have heard how many fights they had before Father ordered one of them to swap with Sarella- and it shall be fine. My letters and lesson plans I keep in on a charming desk in the boudoir. We’ve found one for you as well! Though it doesn’t match the wooden panelling, the legs are sturdy and it has a small wooden slat coming out where you can hide your letters. I wouldn’t recommend doing so, as I’ve already told everyone that it’s there, so if you should get anything clandestine or marvelous, or both, as in the way of a love letter from a suitor, than you must find another hiding spot. We shall share a maid too, as do Obella and Nymeria and Tyene and Sarella, and she is everything proper and boring, sadly, so you’ll not have any defense from mischief with her. She does braid hair wonderfully quick though and I suppose that is something. I prefer to have my hair braided, so that it does not become frightfully messy when I ride. Do you like braids?”

 

“Yes?” Was the dazed reply.

 

Elia nodded haughtily. “I’ll never understand Tyene’s insistence on curling and perfuming her hair when it’ll have to be let out before bed and brushed a hundred time to become straight again. What a bother of effort.  _ I _ certainly don’t have the time for it.”

 

“Neither do I.” Lyarra answered shyly. “I like to ride, though my brother is better on a horse than I am. We stopped riding ponies last year and can sit on a proper horse now, though the stable master has to lead us around the trails.”

 

The she-wolf’s words trailed off as she shared the detail and a sudden upset befell her as she remembered that her brother was leagues away from her now. Ellaria was briefly concerned as the child’s bottom lip trembled once before Elia distracted her again. 

 

“A brother?” Elia mused, curving her thumb and forefinger into a claw-shaped and resting it on her narrow chin, as though she was pulling at a nonexistent goatee. Oberyn fell into the gesture when he was thinking and his fifth daughter had adopted it, as Lyarra seemed to have taken to mimicking the affected accent. “I’ve never had a brother of my own. We have a Trystane but he’s not all that interesting. He cries if you hit him with a stick.”

 

“I think many children would cry if you hit them with a stick,” Lyarra offered diplomatically.

 

Elia waved it aside. “He’s  _ six _ . Only babes can cry if you hit them and he’s not a babe anymore at six. What’s it like having a brother?”

 

“Nothing more interesting than having a sister.” The she-wolf made a face. “Except that he may fight with a sword and I may not.”

 

Elia gasped in deep, personal affront, as though Lyarra had shared a great and terrible injustice with her. “Father says that anyone who desires to fight, can. He allows my sisters and I to learn and Obera is utterly  _ brilliant  _ with weapons. She performs best with a spear and is one of the best in Sunspear. Not as good as Father, of course, but very few people are. Father says that Obara will surpass him one day, likely when he’s gotten all grey and old. We have the household knights to teach us the basics but if we pester Obara enough, she may offer tips or a neat trick that none of the others know.”

 

Lyarra’s eyes gleamed. “The household knights teach you to fight?”

 

Elia nodded happily. “I prefer the lance to the sword but there are many weapons and tutors to choose from. I’ve found that best one is Father’s squire, Ser Daemon. He’s very nice but if you choose him, then you cannot talk about it to Cousin Arianne. Else she gets upset.”

 

“Why? Is he not very nice to her?”

 

“I think he was. Nymeria says it’s because they were  _ special friends _ once.”

 

The violet-eyed girl’s face twisted in confusion. “What does that mean?”

 

Elia shrugged. “Dunno. No one will tell me.”

 

At this point, Ellaria had spent enough time quietly observing the latest arrival to Sunspear interacting with her fifth daughter. Gracefully clearing her throat to catch their attention, she offered an amused smile and a swift distraction before the two could follow the conversation forward. Honestly, not even an hour here, and already Tyene and Elia had started to chip away at the Northern girl’s naivete.

 

“Supper will be laid out soon. Why don’t you introduce Lyarra to the maidservant now, Elia, and prepare yourself for it? Order a few more to ready a quick bath to wash away the dust and grime of travel and then help your cousin familiarize herself with the new outfit readied for her.”

 

As the soft, bemused repeat of the word, Elia all but danced her way to the armoire, threw the doors open in dramatic fashion and stepped aside to reveal a white cotton smock and sky blue silk kirtle. Ellaria had stitched it herself and then added embroidery of golden spiralling sunbursts against white and silver direwolves rising from the hem. There was a matching sideless surcoat of a heavier cambric fabric in navy blue but the formality was unnecessary for an intimate family dinner such as this. 

 

“Mother made it for you,” Elia announced proudly.

 

The reserve in the dark-haired Northern child’s face broke as she turned and offered a wide grin, much like any of her daughters, at Ellaria. “Thank you, Aunt!”

 

“It was my pleasure,” the woman answered sincerely. “I’ll leave you girls to ready yourselves then.”

 

As Elia fell into a chatter, happy to have gained a child near her own age to play with, and Lyarra softly answered her bubbly inquiries, Ellaria stepped out, slowly forming her observations. She would have to put ink down on paper soon, along with her lover, to send the report to Doran but for now, she was satisfied. Lyarra Snow would fit into Sunspear just fine.

 

x

 

_ I know that the ages are a bit confusing, so I’ve written up a list of where everyone is now. _

 

_ Addam Marbrand: 21 _

_ Obara Sand: 20 _

_ Nymeria Sand, Monford Velaryon: 17 _

_ Tyene Sand: 16 _

_ Arianne Martell: 15 _

_ Willas Tyrell/Aurane Waters: 14 _

_ Quentyn Martell/Sarella Sand/Domeric Bolton: 10 _

_ Lyarra Snow/Robb Stark/Aegon Blackfyre: 8 _

_ Elia Sand: 7 _

_ Trystane Martell/Edric Dayne: 6 _

_ Sansa Stark: 5 _

_ Arya Stark: 3 _

_ Bran Stark: 2 _

_ Obella/Dorea/Loreza/Rickon: Unborn _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyarra settles into life at Sunspear. Shopping, lessons and letters to home.

Chapter Six

 

Lyarra smothered a yawn into the sleeve of her cotton nightdress as she pushed open the glass door and slipped outside to the balcony. Her slipper-clad feet slid easily across polished tile, two meters to the bannister, where she slumped with arms hanging loose over cold stone. This early in the morning, before the sun had yet to rise, the desert air was brisk and chilly and not unlike spring in Winterfell. The dark-haired she-wolf had made all of her cousins acutely jealous when she padded down to breakfast several days ago, sleepy-eyed and still dressed in the simple shift donated by Elia. While her Martell blood helped her withstand the harshness of the sun, the Stark side of her allowed Lyarra to dress in fragile cloth even before the sun rose.

 

_ ‘Not that I kept them on afterwards…’  _ Lyarra still blushed crimson when she recalled her screech, high-pitched and ‘ _ akin to Trystane _ ’, when she became aware of her attire. It’s not that Dornish fashions weren’t beautiful or even unreasonable in these temperatures but they were difficult to accustom herself to. ‘ _ I’d never bared so much skin before in my life. _ ’

 

It didn’t matter really that she had nothing to show. It was the principle of the matter!

 

Her cousins- and she had cousins!- still teased her for it. Lyarra had been shy to the mockery at first but then learnt quickly that nothing was meant by it. In a household composed almost solely of women- she perhaps could understand now why the infamous Trystane Martell was prone to sniffles- there’d be those sharp japes that left unmarked skin behind. Words slung arrow sharp would broker an enmity of a thousand suns only to be forgotten in the next heartbeat once laughter sprung out, a query was made or a shared interest spotted. Lyarra had had sisters before but Sansa and Arya were both younger than her and neither of an age where their awe of her had dispelled. Here, the she-wolf had gone from the eldest of three sisters to the second-youngest of six though she had high hopes of moving up the rung when Aunt Ellaria brought another daughter to the world.

 

Of course nothing was certain until the babe was born but Lyarra was starting to think her Uncle Oberyn incapable of throwing sons. He didn’t seem to mind that one bit which was simply _ odd _ . Even Lady Stark, who loved her daughters deeply, boasted of birthing an Heir first for House Stark.

 

Closing her eyes and allowing the salty sea breeze to ruffle past her dark curls, cut down to brush against her shoulders and fastened back by a cotton headband of scarlet, Lyarra enjoyed the peace a little longer. Her haircut was one more difference to be accustomed to but she preferred it to strangling the damp curls into order before the few sword lessons she’d had thus far. Besides Elia claimed it looked ‘cute’ and her cousin had led her wrong in fashion quite yet.

 

_ ‘I hope the bazaar has watercolors available.’  _ Her walls were plain but the sky outside was to be painted in bold strokes of pale blues, vivid oranges, soft yellows and bold reds. If she could sketch even a fraction of the beauty of the Gods’ hand, Lyarra would be content.  _ ‘Now to dress for breakfast.’ _

 

The dark-haired girl didn’t have much of a wardrobe now but many of Elia’s clothes ill-fitted her little. A forest green kirtle was pulled over the white frock from before, her headband swapped for a matching white one and laced-up wrap sandals brought halfway up to her knee. Her trusty locket with her mother’s portrait was around her neck as was usual. Fortunately she was still too young to need a bodice or a corset, neither of whom Sarella had told her in all sincerity, were designed with the possibility of breathing in mind. Once satisfied with her appearance, Lyarra made her way down the spiralling tower designed specifically to make invaders turn to left-handed weapons to maneuver and wandered into the breakfast hall. There she found a beautiful copper-skinned stranger with curls as thick as her own flowing loose down bare shoulders.

 

The stranger looked over at her and smiled. “You must be Cousin Lyarra. I’m Arianne Martell, your eldest cousin by Prince Doran.”

 

“Hello,” Lyarra answered, cautiously making her way closer to the heavily-laden table. This was one of her royal cousins and the dark-haired girl could well believe so, with such finely-paned features in lush silks and grand jewels looking back at her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“And I, you!” Arianne’s amicable response was paired with a swift movement drawing her out of her seat and over to kiss Lyarra’s cheeks. The child’s pale skin flushed in response. “Aren’t you adorable?”

 

“We haven’t broken her of the blushing yet,” Nymeria offered languidly. Beside her was Tyene, the stain of pink dye on her skin suggesting that she’d been making an early offering to the Maiden. Lyarra hoped it wasn’t to convert her again. “It’s an ongoing effort.”

 

“You should end it, she’s simply too cute to change.” This was accompanied by a pinch to her cheeks that drew a scowl out of the dark-haired girl. Arianne merely laughed it off, a husky, mirthful sound followed by another kiss to her cheek. “You are far too cute, little cousin. We’ll have to keep a sharp eye on you to keep another from stealing our wolf.”

 

“Unless,” she added in afterthought, “You would like to be stolen? I’m told she-wolves prefer so.”

 

Lyarra blinked upwards in confusion. Tyene voice, soft with disapproval, chided their cousin for crass words- ‘ _ what had she said that was improper? _ ’, Lyarra wondered- and then lured the Northern girl to the table. The Snow soon found herself with a plate full of her favorites, a combination of the familiar from home, as with the smoky sausage, and additions that she’d taken well to, such as date pudding. Arianne was soon drawn back into conversing with her older cousins, allowing Lyarra to sit back and happily partake of her meal. 

 

As she slowly made her way through her meal- leisurely breakfasts were the convention, rather than the exception in a realm with plenty of sunlight to spare- others were drawn to the table. A grumbling, sleepy-eyed Elia, hair pulled into customary braid, didn’t bother to fill her own plate as she clambered into a seat next to her. Pulling up a heavy mug of tisane, the girl sipped her way through it as Lyarra slipped her bites from her own meal. Sarella had adopted the same habit though rather than being fed, she shamelessly stole from all of her family members, including Princess Arianne herself. Obara came in near the end reeking of a morning’s devoted effort but neither Aunt Ellaria nor Uncle Oberyn made an appearance. Lyarra had asked where they were once and Nymeria had seem poised to answer until Tyene accidentally kicked her in the shins. Or at least Tyene  _ claimed _ it was an accident. 

 

“Are you ready for today, Lyarra?” Nymeria inquired, once she’d polished off enough pineapple and banana slices for the entire table. 

 

“Is today special?” She’d thought it be another morning of lessons with the septa really. Not that she’d believed Septa Scylla to be one at first. There hadn’t been a single sermon on the Seven yet but there had been hours of lessons on posture, dictation, etiquette and House rivalries. Her head spun from how many people hated how many other people in this realm, though most vengeance seemed limited to snubbing each other from parties. Uncle Oberyn alone had a list of Dornish enemies that Lyarra had been given to read through. Why the entirety of House Qorgyle hated the man, she would dearly love to know.

 

“We’re going shopping!” Nymeria announced, making almost everyone in the table perk up. “Or at least you are, Lyarra. You’ll be presented at Sunspear’s court next sennight, so you must have a wardrobe readied for you. We can’t all attend to this, of course, so you may pick two of us to go.”

 

“Elia,” Lyarra answered quickly, because that was the easy one. Her eyes tracked over the remainder and deciding that Tyene looked far too predatory for her own good, added, “Obara.”

 

Both Obara and Tyene looked disappointed by this for the exact same reason.

 

“Why me?” Obara groaned, as Tyene pouted and demanded, “Why  _ not _ me?!”

 

“I need clothes to spar in too?” Thankfully that reason had been enough to calm Tyene down and after Obara left for a quick wash, Lyarra and Elia were dragged out to find her some clothes. To her surprise, Arianne elected to join them.

 

“I love my cousins,” the Princess explained with a sly smile. “But Obara is not made for courtly fashions. Neither, frankly, are Tyene and Sarella. All are too set in their ways and if we want them to overlook that long Stark face of yours then we’ll need proper Dornish fashion.”

 

Lyarra nodded slowly, grasping at least the implication that her features may not be wholly welcome in a Dornish court but that her family intended to present her as one of them regardless. Arianne’s presence then, was a gift rather than an imposition, a kindness that had Lyarra shyly reach for one of the Princess’ hands and have it squeeze hers comfortingly in return. Elia appeared soon after to her other side and began to chatter as was her wont. 

 

“Grandfather said his prized mare is about to go into heat soon and he’ll have a stallion selected to sire a proper foal on her for the new baby’s sake. The foal will be old enough for her to ride in a few years and that’s the only steed that she’ll begin with because Grandfather doesn’t tolerate any of his grandchildren riding inferior horses. He breeds the best sand steeds in Dorne, as you know.” Elia paused here to offer a haughty grin to her. “Nine of the last ten firelight tourney winners rode Uller horses. The only one who didn’t was… uh…”

 

Arianne sniffed. “You can speak his name, you know. I am not a glass doll to shatter for a boy’s sake.”

 

“Well, Ser Daemon didn’t ride the proper horse but he won anyway, probably cause Father didn’t want to ride that day,” Elia asserted. “Father’s the second best rider in the family. The best one is Mother but you don’t know that because she’s all fat and slow now. When she isn’t though, she can ride like the wind! That’s how she and Father met. They were in a horse race and Mother sped by him-”

 

The dark-haired girl let the words fall cheerfully around her ears as they traversed the swindly labyrinth that was the Shadow City. More populous than Winter Town but less so than White Harbor much less the grand cities that Oldtown and King’s Landing laid claim to, this was a dizzy, narrow, serpentine, completely disordered row of paths that Lyarra lost track of within moments of entering. Her fingers itched for a good sketchpad and ink quill to draw out a proper city block with neat, orderly rows of houses built to cast shadows in an ever-decreasing row. It’d be a good way to keep the people cool, as would plots of mango groves here and there and a narrow grove dug in to let sea water flow into the city. Drainage systems and mud-brick roads to be swept away of dust too.

 

“This way, little wolf,” Arianne pulled her into one windowless building, her eyes adjusting swiftly to the dim lighting inside. Inside were rows and rows of leather and stiffer canvas clothes, of which Obara scoured through to find outfits for herself. Lyarra found that her duty was simply to stand still and not fidget as Arianne and Obara fell into a swift discussion that yielded three pairs of trousers and two tunics for her, amongst other minor amenities. Once her measurements had been decided…

 

“Let’s look at the threads in the other room!” Elia didn’t wait for a response before tugging her further into the building. It was bigger than it seemed on the outside, with one thick wall built of dozens of cubby holes. Inside were spools of thread dyed in more colors than she’d ever seen before. “You’ll need to embroider the clothes yourself, so pick which ones you like!”

 

“...Grey?” Lyarra suggested? Amber eyes blinked owlishly at her and then Elia dragged over a stool and plopped her down. The Snow obediently fell to nodding as her cousin offered spool after spool for her judgement. Soon the basket was filled to the brim with colorful threads crossing the entire rainbow. “Do we really need all this? It must be frightfully expensive.”

 

“Threads? They’re cheap here,” Elia dismissed. Indeed, Lyarra was left a bit astounded as, after an amiable haggling, the merchant ended up handing over the basket for a mere silver and six coppers. 

 

When that was done, she was brought to a cobbler (“Have her pattens made with poulaine toes, if you please”), a draper (brightly patterned cottons were apparently the style now), a tailor (she’d had to insist that any transparent fabric be returned altogether) and for some inexplicable reason, a furrier.

 

“What do you even  _ do _ in Dorne?” Lyarra asked in patent disbelief. A moment later, she remembered that ladies did not use such tones and ducked her head down in embarrassed apology. Fortunately the man took it well enough to laugh at her words. 

 

“Plenty, my lady!” The man’s eyes twinkled in humor. “Every time anyone wants to take a trip  _ outside _ of Dorne, they arrive at my doorstep to commission something for themselves.”

 

“The furs you’ve brought from the North are too layered and heavy,” Arianne informed her blithely. “Nymeria ordered a servant to bring them in here to be salvaged if they can and sold if they cannot. We’ll have a few pieces made should you become colder at night or travel outside of Dorne.”

 

‘ _ Travel outside of Dorne?’ _ The possibility was as thrilling as it was daunting. Lyarra focused on that rather than the pang of sadness for when she heard her old clothes were to be ripped apart. Her eyes skittered across the room of one of the few indoor bazaars here that kept windows open for light and settled on a handful of hats in the back. Drawing closer, she found caps of a design unknown to her. They were relatively flat and plain, made of dyed wool and of dark colors. Lyarra caressed a soft grey one with a single finger.

 

It was pulled from her grasp a second later and placed upon her head. A little overlarge, it fell between her bangs, over her forehead and partially disfiguring her eyes. Lyarra blinked and pulled it upwards. It fell down again. Lyarra then held it upwards, peeking up at her assailant now. 

 

Arianne’s lips twitched into a wide smile. “We’ll take that as well.” 

 

x 

 

The next day, when Lyarra was done with her morning lessons and idling time away until Elia arrived, she found herself bent over a fresh sheet of parchment on her writing desk. They’d had sums today and she’d been allowed to leave as soon as her sheet was finished, leaving her cousin to stab at her own worksheet as though it had mortally offended her in some way, possibly by claiming Ueller horses inferior to any other breeds in the realm. The dark-haired girl was quite happily surprised to learn Maester Winlow more tolerant of his student’s disappearing once their lessons were done. 

 

In Winterfell, she’d had to sit and swing her legs impatiently while Robb finished his own work, often slowing down the time even more because her brother preferred sending her morose looks to actually calculating numbers. He’d have been better off taking Elia’s approach to matters. Shortly after learning her proficiency in the subject, Elia had subjected her to a two hour lesson on finger-tapping that would share the answers without speech. They’d pulled it off successfully thrice now but possibly the Maester had caught on, because he insisted on sitting across from them on the table today. 

 

_ ‘Which is very unfair because now  _ Tyene _ can cheat without the Maester watching!’  _

 

For such a pious girl, her cousin sure did have a flexible moral compass.

 

But it was one of those anecdotes that Lyarra, while desperate to share with her best friend, was hesitant to actually do so. Her letter to Robb had to be of exacting nature. It couldn’t claim her unhappy because that was dishonest and Lyarra should probably retain her honest nature for at least her Northern blood. It couldn’t be truthful either, because she didn’t want Robb to think she was having too much fun without him there. And it absolutely couldn’t include any detail that would imply she was being raised in a manner ill-fitting for a Northern child because Father would get his hands on this letter and she didn’t need him to dislike Uncle Oberyn any more.

 

_ ‘So… embroidery?’  _ Lyarra shook her head. She didn’t necessarily  _ mind _ adding designs to her delightful new wardrobe but not even Robb’s affection for her would extend to a letter focused on that.  _ ‘My swordsmanship and riding lessons! I can speak of that!’ _

 

_ To my least likeable older brother, _

 

_ I have been most tolerably settled in Sunspear for the last few days. While I haven’t the fortune of meeting a young prince just yet, you may inform Sansa that Arianne Martell is as beautiful a princess as any a knight would dream of rescue. She is of height with Theon, with a figure that your Ironborn friend would likely walk into a door for, as well as curls managed with far more skill than my own. Her desires lie with soft silks in vibrant blues and soft greens, patterned and layered transparently as is current court fashion here, and matched with gems of unknown tongues. I suspect one to be jade, a pale green shade lighter than moss that originates from a land called Yi-Ti. I’d add details more but alas, not even ten pages, full on one side and another, will capture enough of her royal beauty to satisfy our sister. Merely tell Sansa that the Princess of Dorne is properly songworthy and beg her imagination to fill the aspirations that my quill cannot. _

 

_ Onwards to a topic that may keep your eyes from glazing over, I’ve recently ridden a steed by myself! Twice around a ring admittedly, at a slow trot but without anyone else to hold my reins! Can you claim the same, Brother? If you cannot, you must admit yourself the lesser horseman of us two. I will take pity on you though. I understand that Theon Greyjoy wouldn’t have many riding lessons on the Iron Islands. He must still be acclimating himself to the proper mode of transportation in the other realms and your own lessons will be delayed for his ease. The horse that I rode was a gelded colt with a pale brown coat excepting for a streak of white drawn down his face. It was so akin to foam that I named the beast ‘Ale’ at first glance and now he will answer to naught else. Elia swears to me that Lord Ueller will find it an entirely appropriate and amusing choice in name, which I hope for. The man has been most kind in sending this gift to me- _

 

_ ‘I cannot tell him that.’  _ Lyarra paused and struck out the last line. She had been touched when a lord unrelated to her by blood, merely her Aunt Ellaria’s father, sent her a steed as he did every other Sand Snake but this would make her seem too welcomed to her brother. When Edmure Tully had visited his sister a year past, he had brought gifts for every child but herself. But then, he couldn’t be seen to favor the bastard of his sister’s husband. ‘ _ Of course, the eldest four Sand Snakes are Uncle Oberyn’s bastards by women other than Aunt Ellaria… _ ’

 

No, that wasn’t the same at all. She didn’t know why but… but it just  _ wasn’t _ . Uncle Oberyn and Aunt Ellaria may have treated any of the children under their care with equal affection, born of his loins or her womb or not, but that was wonderfully, frightfully unique to them. Lyarra didn’t believe that others would have done the same, not even in the strange land that she was growing accustomed to now. Deciding to keep that line struck out, Lyarra continued.

 

_ There is a saying in Dorne of House Ueller that half are mad and the other half worse, so I would not want to invite his displeasure upon myself! But the man does train a fine horse, none can deny that. The sand steeds here are smaller and lighter than their Northern brothers, bred to move swiftly through a treacherous landscape with few obstacles in the ground but prone to storms that can rub one’s eyeballs dry. They have very long lashes and wobbly kneecaps, which should not be graceful but somehow are in full run. They drink very little water as well. Uncle Oberyn has an amusing tale of how they acquired this ability, starting with a violently purple cactus (I have attached a sketch below of a prickly plant that drinks the blood of the unwary and the foreign but stores much water in its veins for the Dornishman to partake of) and a Myrish merchant with an equally bright turban- _

 

Recalling at the last moment that said amusing tale included a dirty jape integral to the premise, Lyarra quickly crossed those lines out as well. This continued throughout the letter. Every time she fell into a natural narrative, almost feeling as though her brother was across from her to converse with as they once did, she would remember that this or that line was improper or unsuitable or just plain strange for a reader lacking context. When Lyarra was done, her five sheets of work were blotted with ink lines and scribbled over doodles of her kin.

 

Carefully placing her quill to the side, Lyarra buried her face in her arms. Since when had writing to Robb ever been  _ hard _ ?

 

x

 

_ Lyarra’s hat is a cross between the Tudor flat hat (thank you to Author376 for finding it!) and a newsboy cap in a soft grey wool. It’s a little too large on her now but she likes to tuck it down and hide behind the fabric, so that’s alright. _


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

Lyarra earnestly wished that she retained her dark grey felt cap, so that she could pull it low over her eyes now. While she intellectually knew that not being able to see them didn’t mean that  _ they _ couldn’t see  _ her _ , the dark-haired bastard felt that the darkness shrouding her would lessen her heartbeat and cool her dampened palms. Bereft of her newfound favorite apparel though, she simply kept her features as placid as the sunny surface of a lake while regarding the Dornish court.

 

‘ _ Who knew that I would miss being hidden away as my father’s shame?’  _ As a bastard, Lyarra Snow had been kept to the dark corners of ballrooms and shadowy ends of solars. Now she stood, back straight, hands folded and chin up before what amounted to some of the most powerful nobility in Dorne. ‘ _ Deep breath in, deep breath out. I will not shame either of my Houses now.’ _

 

Her dark violet eyes shaded and brightened by a streak of black kohl danced over the splendor of the court. The royal room of Sunspear was a vast hall of dark gold sunstone and black marble veined in streaks of pale pink and sky blue. Banners of red, black and gold hung throughout the room with cloth of orange stitched in House Martell’s sigil strategically placed throughout to catch the light of the torches. Ferns in clay vases added a touch of natural levity to the hall. Arched doors with iron-wrought latticework let into the room and a pristine colored-stone floor led up to a half-sun made of reinforced stained glass surrounding the royal dias. 

 

The royal dias was the most eye-catching part of the majestic hall. It was in a hollow chamber carved into the hall and bracketed by five wide panes of bronze-supported glass letting in abundant sunlight. No less than eleven steps for each of the original clans conquered by Mors Martell led up to a straight-backed throne set a measure away from the stairs. Wrought of bronze and gold, it wasn’t anything grand in design and lacked any intricacies but for the sun and spear embossed on its back. Above it stood a simple canopy of red silk to protect the Prince from the heavy rays of sunlight. Flanking the steps were twin bronze statues of a beast crossed between tortoise and toad with eyes of jade and a foreboding expression on its face. Elia had told her that they were Old Men of the River, a species held sacred by the Rhoynar that were believed to be spiritual consorts of the Mother Rhoyne, their chief goddess. They had been a wedding gift from Nymeria herself to her husband when they joined their two lines. The Orphans of the Greenblood still worshipped Mother Rhoyne and while they did not answer to House Martell’s authority, delegations did arrive to Sunspear to request luck from these ancient statues. 

 

In this aura of solemnity and dignity slouched her Nuncle Oberyn with seemingly irreverent aloofness as he spoke to the current lord’s petition. If not for the sharp keenness of his depthless black eyes, Lyarra would have been concerned that her mother’s House left its business to a man too fickle to handle matters of state.

 

‘ _ Nuncle plays jester so often that I forgot he was a statesman as well.’  _ Lyarra’s lips curved up into a small smile. ‘ _ A scholar, a warrior, a pirate and now this? I should wish to be just like him when I am grown… though perhaps with less children. I would have to birth them myself after all.’ _

 

Despite his six child swiftly approaching, Lady Ellaria sat serenely in the main courtier’s seat before the dias. She had a lap desk ready and was swiftly making account of each petitioner’s name, rank, complaint and suggested royal solution. When this lord was done, Nuncle having nonchalantly agreed to look into his daughter’s martial situation with a man she apparently ran away to wed, the next man stepped forward. This one had the look of Stony Dornish but his uncommonly light blonde hair appeared almost silver and his eyes were a startlingly lavender color. As he walked up to Nuncle Oberyn, his gaze flitted over to her, warm and curious, and a small smile appeared on his face.

 

Uncertain, Lyarra smiled back and paid acute attention to his address.

 

“Lord Alleric of Starfall, Head of House Dayne,” the man introduced himself with a steady, soft-spoken voice. “I’ve arrived with my son and Heir, Edric, to turn him over to Prince Oberyn for his squireship.”

 

“Ah, my newfound mule!” Her Uncle perked up. “Where is the boy? Daemon’s been slacking off in shining my armor lately and I could use more help.”

 

Lord Alleric Dayne didn’t look the least bit offended by this. “I have handed him off to the servants to be escorted to his quarters, Your Grace.”

 

“I’ll check his current skill set later than,” Oberyn answered. “Don’t bother to leave until I’ve tested him. It’d be a bother to chase down your party later.” An inclination of a silver-gilted head was the only response. “Let me introduce you to my niece, Lyarra Snow. Come here, sweetling.”

 

A fissure of startlement ran down her spine as she was addressed for the first time this morning. Standing up from her own chair and smoothing down her dress, Lyarra made her way past the tall Dornish lord and to her uncle’s side. She had thought there would be more pomp and circumstance when she was introduced to the court but found Prince Oberyn’s negligent gesture in her direction to be oddly reassuring. “My cousin, Aliandra’s, daughter by the Warden of the North.”

 

“How do you do, Lady Lyarra?” The Dayne lord politely inquired.

 

Suddenly confronted by the man that she would have otherwise thought her uncle, considering the rumors of Ashara Dayne, Lyarra did the only thing she could have done. She fell into a perfect curtsy as taught her by the septa for the last several days. “I am well, thank you, my lord. And yourself?”

 

“I am fortunate to be in good health.” As she looked up, he commented. “You have your mother’s curls, my dear, as well as the violet eyes that occasionally pop into your House.”

 

“Thank you,” Lyarra repeated, as her cheeks reddened. Oh Gods, this was the man whose brother died at her father’s hand and whose sister was dishonored by Ned Stark also. The dark-haired girl would have expected some sort of dissatisfaction from his direction but received that kind-natured smile still.

 

“Lyarra has been listening to petitioners all morning,” her Nuncle informed the man. “Without a word of complaint.”

 

“Most impressive patience from anyone, particularly a child.”

 

“Yes, I thought so as well.” Those keen eyes were softer as they looked upon her. “Do you know the way to the fosterling quarters?” She did not but loathed revealing her ignorance before the court. So she nodded. “Then fetch Edric for me, will you? I would like to take measure of him now.”

 

Lyarra nodded and then turned swiftly to move past the courtiers. She carefully avoided everyone’s eyes, not yet having the nerve to look at them directly, though glimpses of sigils attached surnames to the unknown figures. Her outfit for the day was a well-fitted brocade of dark orange and gold, the silk tunic painted thinly in gold paint of flourishes akin to whirlpools and waves. It brushed past silken slippers and loose, voluminous trousers of black. Having worn clothing far heavier than this in her normal life, Lyarra felt as loose-limbed and light-footed as a bird in flight as she walked. Once past the doors, she quickened her pace to where the living quarters were and requested from the maester the location of the male fosterlings.

 

Lyarra knew her search was over when she laid eyes on a boy that could have been Lord Alleric writ miniature.  _ ‘He looks much like his father.’ _

 

She herself shared that paternal resemblance though her wild curls and dark violet eyes could distinguish her somewhat. The bastard wondered which tiny aspects would reveal this boy’s mother’s blood, for as she politely knocked on the door and Lord Edric Dayne turned, he looked nothing but a starlord. His silver-gilt hair was slightly too long and flopping over eyes that were startlingly pale. His features were soft and rounded with youth but she could the curve of the hollow cheekbones he would have one day. Standing half a head shorter than herself, this slim boy didn’t strike her as anything of the warrior her uncle was forging Ser Daemon into.

 

On a related note, she didn’t know why Cousin Arianne didn’t like Ser Daemon. He was so nice! 

 

“Nuncle Oberyn wants to test you now,” Lyarra said, deciding that it would only be just to warn the boy. She wondered if she might have made a mistake when that pale skin turned translucent. 

 

“Test me? Father didn’t mention a test,” the boy said. His voice was as soft and sweet as the rest of him. The bastard pitied his chances of passing whatever nonsense the Viper would arrange. “Do you know what it may be? I’m Edric Dayne by the way. Of Starfall.”

 

“Lyarra Snow of  _ Wint _ -” Lyarra replied automatically. “Of Sunspear. I’m Prince Oberyn’s niece.”

 

“The one from the North that Lord Stark hid,” Edric Dayne summarized. 

 

“How do you know of me?”

 

“You’re currently the best gossip of Dorne. Would you not be curious if a royal family found a long-lost daughter?” The question was not offered unkindly. “It’s alright. News passes swiftly here. You’ll need to await an elopement soon or a duel gone wrong or Prince Oberyn getting bored and then no one will be speaking of you anymore.”

 

“I- News doesn’t pass so quickly in the North,” Lyarra said, dealing with a sudden dizziness of realization. She was a  _ royal _ bastard now and a lord paramount’s too. Wow. “We spoke of Lord Harewood's affair with his servant for nearly two years.”

 

“Was it a scandalous one?” 

 

“I don’t think so,” she spoke with uncertainty. The Northern bastard wasn’t an expert in these subjects but she didn’t think the affair was anything special. “It produced a bastard?”

 

“What else?” Edric Dayne’s worries seemed to have fled as they turned the corner and made their way down the stairs. “Come on, there must be more than that? Crossdressing? Incest? Threesome? Was there a duel at least?”

 

“No,” was her wide-eyed response. What caliber of scandals did they have  _ here _ ? “His wife banished him from her rooms for a moon.”

 

“Well, that’s boring,” the blonde boy huffed. “You’ll be provided with far more entertainment in Dorne, my lady, you need not worry.”

 

_ ‘Now  _ I’m _ the one that’s worried!’  _ The dark-haired girl decided to let the talk of scandals rest as she quickened her pace to the latticework door. By equal measure, the Dornish boy lagged behind until she was forced to reach back and grab a hand that was as soft as the rest of him before dragging Edric Dayne forward. A sense of pride at a job well done filled her as the bastard shoved the boy in. 

 

“Get the maester!”

 

The room was in mild pandemonium. Courtiers were scrambling over each other to rush to the doors, while Ellaria Sand was slumped over in her lover’s arms. A head of silver hair and another guard were helping keep the lady up but from the drips of dark red Lyara could see pooling underneath her garment, it was evident that something had gone very wrong. Oberyn was barking orders around him one moment and shouting at Ellaria to keep her eyes open the next.

 

Lyarra stood stock still. Her sights narrowed to the blue-tinted pallor to Ellaria Sand’s dusky skin, the sharpness of the tightened features and the heavily lidded eyes fighting pain to be opened. Her heart froze. ‘ _ Is this how my mother looked as she lay dying? _ ’

 

“We need to find the maester!” Not having realized that he could steal his hand away, the starlord took advantage of their interlocked hands to drag her now. “Do you know where he is?”

 

Broken from her daze and unexpectedly grateful for it, Lyarra stuttered out the last location she had seen him in. The man had to have been nearby for the bastard to pass him on her way to the foster quarters. He’d been heading down to second layer of castle floors and while Edric may not know where that was, Lyarra had… “The kitchens! Come on!”

 

The two children ran together past servants, courtiers and guards as the castle was slowly whipped into a tizzy over the sudden emergency. The news hadn’t reached the kitchens it seemed, as when Lyarra burst into the room by one of its seemingly endless array of doorways, all thrown open to let the steam and fire’s heat out and a single exhausted breath to wind in, the maester was still sitting. Maester Caleotte had a snack before him and was filling his smooth face with sweetened naan when the children reached him.

 

“Royal hall… Aunt Ellaria… blood,” Lyarra gasped out. 

 

“Prince Oberyn is calling for you!” Edric added, less winded than she was. 

 

_ ‘It’s impressive how fast a man that fast can be _ ,’ the dark-haired girl thought, once the words had sunk in. Maester Caleoette jumped to his feet and had soon overtaken them to rush out the door. Their task now complete, they exchanged looks as though wondering if they should return.

 

By mutual consent, the two curious children headed back to the royal hall. Unfortunately by then Lady Ellaria had been moved to a private room and Nuncle Oberyn was with her. As Edric broke off to speak to his father, blushing a bright cherry red when he realized he hadn’t yet let go of her hand, Lyarra headed to the hallway. Sitting between Elia and Tyene, as Obara restlessly paced through the halls, she found that it was now her duty to be chatterbug. With Elia unable to say anything in her worry, Lyarra decided to recount every petition she had heard today. She had run out of lords to mention and was about to contemplate aloud Edric’s future test when Maester Caleoette walked back out.

 

Lady Ellaria was fine and the latest Sand Snake had been born, premature but healthy. Her name would be Obella Sand and she was asleep now but they could all take turns to see her, two at a time, youngest first. Lyarra was surprised when that meant Elia and herself would be ushered through the door. When she entered, it was to a scrupulously clean room that couldn’t quite hide the scent of blood in the air. Aunt Ellaria was conscious but lying down in bed and quite exhausted. Slumped on the chair next to her was Nuncle Oberyn, who was one part elated grinning and the other part barely hidden pain. Judging by how tenderly he was holding his left hand, Lyarra guessed why. 

 

“Come here, girls, and meet the newest member of our family.”

 

The dark-haired girl moved closer to the bed. Nestled between her mother’s chest and a pillow was an impossibly tiny figure with skin as red as an overripe berry and barely any tufts of black on her bald head. Her hands were so small that Lyarra thought one of her fingers would cover them and her eyes were scrunched closed in a baby jowled glare. Despite the lack of hair on her head, she did seem to have very finely shaped eyebrows and, er…

 

“She has a big nose,” Elia observed. Oberyn let out a soft huff of laughter.

 

“She’ll grow into it,” the man assured. Considering his own prominent nose, the Northern girl hoped so, lest he wanted his daughter to despise him from this day onwards.

 

“Hello Obella,” she whispered quietly, a soft, hushed sort of happiness spreading through her heart. “I’m your cousin, Lyarra.”

 

x

 

With Obella Sand born, Lyarra didn’t particularly want to make the half-day’s journey to the Water Gardens. Or at least she was ambivalent on the plans. On one hand, the palace had been claimed by no less an authority than her Aunt Ellaria- obviously the smarter of the pair- as gorgeous and Lyarra admitted the writings supported this. Pale pink marble pathways, fluted pillar galleries, terraced floors overlooking reflecting pools and numerous blood orange trees dripping heavy with fruit. She would be able to meet her other uncle there, as well as another cousin that she hadn’t yet met. On the other hand, Obella was becoming a lot more cuter now that she didn’t look like a grumpy, red-faced baby Caleoette and Edric was a fun partner to spar against.

 

“Doran is a recognized Master of the Alchemist’s Game,” Nuncle Oberyn noted slyly. “He won a championship in Qohor when he was a young man. First ever Westerosi to reach the first title.”

 

Lyarra was hooked. “Bye, Nuncle! Be safe and give everyone my love!”

 

The man burst out into laughter. “You haven’t even gotten your belongings readied yet. You’ll be staying there for a fortnight at least and will need to pack appropriately. Have you any swim clothes?”

 

“I do.” Her cheeks turned crimson at the reminder. They were… flimsy. And small. And still better than swimming in the nude. “Are you certain they will be needed?”

 

“Would you rather swim naked?” Oberyn asked without any judgment. The Northern bastard swiftly shook her head. While there were some benefits of Dornish styles that she had quickly acclimated herself to, the light and airy fabrics, independent movement and presence of pockets especially, she was not yet ready for that tradition. “Then pack yourself a few swimsuits. The mineral waters there are very refreshing and you wouldn’t want to miss out.”

 

Lyarra had taken his words under consideration by asking Elia to help her pack and then doing the girl’s math worksheets while she got it done. The bastard made a note to find a moment to pray soon. While she didn’t have a Heart Tree- though she’d been fascinated to learn that Starfall kept one in its grounds- that didn’t mean she couldn’t commune with her Gods. Lyarra should probably do so and apologize for all of her bad behavior recently. Cheating before the maester, skipping nap time to read under her window, bribing her cousins with dessert and yesterday, even snapping at a princess! She felt almost gleefully rebellious in her behavior.

 

_ ‘May the Old Gods of the Forests forgive me my trespasses.’  _ The dark-haired girl added, as she finished the final calculations. “I’m done, Elia!”

 

When the preparations were done, Lyarra was pulled up to ride behind Daemon Sand on the trip. The Bastard of Godsgrace was a tall, lean young man with tanned golden skin, dark brown hair and sky blue eyes. He was a lighthearted fellow and regaled her with amusements, most of which involved him apologizing for  _ something _ her nuncle did, on the journey there. The dark-haired girl was quite disappointed when they finally reached the castle though the blood orange he pressed into her hands made up for the loss of his company.

 

_ ‘I’m going to marry that boy when I grow up,’ _ Lyarra decided. If Cousin Arianne didn’t want him, then she could take him, right?

 

The journey to the Prince of Dorne’s solar was short, no matter how she wanted to linger about and take in the sights and soon she was admitted into an airy room by a massive and muscular guard. That axe in his hand had to be taller than her! The room itself was wide and filled with light, plenty of shimmering rainbows reflecting from the wealth of glass around her, and dominated by a low hexagonal table in yellow-grained wood where her Uncle Doran and cousin were sitting.

 

_ ‘So this is the infamous Trystane Martell.’  _ Floppy hair, owlish eyes, gangly limbs and round cheeks smeared with unidentifiable edibles, she could see why he’d suffer the wrath of their cousins.

 

“You have something on your cheek,” Lyarra pointed out blandly.

 

Trystane responded with a surprisingly fierce glare. “I’m aware.” 

 

Allowing him to return to wiping off the substances from his skin, Lyarra turned to her other uncle. Her first thought was that he was  _ old _ . Nuncle Oberyn was as well, with hint of grey amidst his black hair, but where youth and vigor added a spring to his step, Nuncle Doran looked older than his years. He had a pleasant, lined face inset with depthless black eyes and a polite smile. His hair was fully silver or more of a greyish-white color and the silk robes he wore, of the Martell shades, were carefully placed around to hide the skin of his hands and his feet. He looked very tired. 

 

When his keen eyes landed on her, Lyarra thought they might have softed a bit. “Introduce yourself.”

 

The Northern bastard fell to a proper curtsy. “Lyarra Snow of Sunspear, Your Grace.”

 

“Well met, child.” The Prince gestured to the sofa near his wheelchair and she cautiously moved to perch on a cushion. “I am your mother’s cousin, your Nuncle Doran. You may refer to me by that term in private and by my title elsewhere.” She nodded. “Tell me of yourself.”

 

She didn’t know where to begin but under those patient eyes and the discomfort that silence was beginning to be, Lyarra spoke. She started with her time at Sunspear, pitch escalating in excitement over her lessons and newfound independence and cousins, and then, when she ran out of topics there, ventured back to Winterfell. She spoke of her other siblings and her close friendship with Robb, the Heart Tree and how often she had prayed there, Old Nan and her stories and how she’d gone on a hunger strike to be allowed to fight. Father hadn’t allowed it in Winterfell but Nuncle Oberyn put a wooden blade in her hand and let her to run about with Edric and Elia and be taught as they were. 

 

The Prince didn’t speak very often himself but he would ask questions of her interests or inquire further on a story and before Lyarra knew, she was roped into an Alchemist’s Game. As an opponent, her nuncle was brutal and Lyarra’s pieces fell off the board before she quite understood what had occured. The dark-haired girl was left blinking at her bare half of the board in shock.

 

“You did well for a beginner,” Nuncle Doran spoke kindly, reassembling the pieces. “Let us try again. I’ll repeat the first stratagem I used in the last game and you can tell me of how to counter it.”

 

Lyarra carefully amended her previous assumption. Nuncle Doran was a tired man but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous as well.

 

x

  
Throne Room at Sunspear:  [ https://us.v-cdn.net/5021068/uploads/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/TempleOfUtu_Final_03.jpg ](https://us.v-cdn.net/5021068/uploads/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/TempleOfUtu_Final_03.jpg)


End file.
